After dinner on New Year’s Eve, we sat cross-legged on the floor with a bottle of wine and a box full of pictures. The wine had become tradition, but the box was a surprise.
“What are we supposed to do with these?” I asked, taking out a couple of photos.
He laughed. “Where’d your sense of sentimentality go? Just thought we could, you know, look back on how our year went and the stuff we’ve managed to do together.”
I elbowed him teasingly. “You didn’t strike me as the sentimental type.”
“I have my moments,” he replied with a wink. He reached out for one of the pictures I was holding. It was a candid shot from one of our trips, me standing on a sidewalk and totally engrossed with my phone. “Remember this?”
“Oh my gosh!” I exploded with laughter. The picture wasn’t Instagram-worthy; heck, I would’ve deleted it the second after it was taken if I’d known it existed. But the story behind it was priceless. Embarrassing, but priceless.
“The Super Mario café must be a red building because he wears a red jumpsuit,” he said a matter-of-factly, attempting to mimic my voice.
I grabbed a pillow from the couch and hit him with it.
He was still laughing when he grabbed me in return and kissed me on the forehead. “Adorable.”
We spent the rest of the evening going through the pictures, retelling our stories and planning future adventures, even after we’d finished our bottle of wine and the clock struck midnight.
“Happy new year, hun.”
“Happy new year.”
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.