Midnight, Mute Button Mischief [Wreath]
Ten, nine, eight, the room chants loud and messy, half-drunk, half-dressed, cheeks flushed and glitter-streaked in cheap strings of light that flicker and threaten to quit, while I crouch by the entertainment center like a priest of plastic, praying to the couch gods for that cursed remote I somehow managed to misplace again tonight,
Seven, six, five ricochet off the walls in a sloppy choir of cousins and neighbors and that one friend-of-a-friend already shirtless, while crumb comets launch from the coffee table, chips and popcorn in low orbit, everything in here wild and imperfect yet weirdly right.
The TV screams a countdown over some overpaid host pretending this year redeemed itself in champagne fizz and fake confetti rain,
My brain mumbles a different countdown, years stacked like plates in a sink, each one ringed in leftover sauce and regret that never quite washed clean, never quite went down the drain.
Someone yells, “Where’s the mute, my ears are bleeding, for real, find the damn remote before they hit one,” their voice part panic and part laugh,
And I dive into a sea of throw pillows, crumbs, lost pens, and one single sock that smells like last week’s gym class, all packed into that couch like some thrift store aftermath.
Ten, nine, eight, my aunt’s high-pitched echo wobbles through the house while she guards the onion dip like a dragon curled around treasure no thief would ever dare steal,
I shove my arm between cushions, shoulder deep in lint and pennies and an ancient candy heart stuck to a receipt, wondering if I’ll pull my hand back cursed, or just broken, or weirdly healed.
The cat perches on the back of the couch, tail switching like a metronome set to a nervous heart,
Eyes narrowed, judging every clumsy human move, clearly aware this whole scene falls apart.
Seven, six, every number lands alarmingly faster than the last, a drumline of syllables stomping over any chance at calm,
My partner leans across the coffee table, neckline dropping low, jeans tugged tight across hips while they reach down behind the TV, cursing softly about cords, dust, and spare change in a tone that hits me in the gut like a slow-motion bomb.
Five, four, fingers scrape along empty plastic shelves, my hand finds crumbs that tell a whole archaeological saga of snacks, arguments, late-night binges, and half-watched horror flicks at two in the morning,
I cough on dust, eyes watering, yet some twisted part of me laughs, that this is how new years start for me, in a wrestling match with upholstery and a deadline that keeps warning.
The TV crowd shrieks, glitter air cannons going off, their smiles pre-packaged and perfect,
In our living room, the only pyrotechnics come from the microwave clock blinking wrong time again, and the way my partner’s smirk curves sideways, smug and correct.
Three, someone shouts in falsetto, already skipping four like time skipped us this last stretch,
I swear the walls join in, drywall humming, house wires buzzing, ductwork chanting, while I dig under the couch and stretch and stretch.
Two, the whole room leans toward the screen, and for a second the world shrinks to that bright rectangle and all the what-ifs it represents,
I brush something smooth and rectangular under the couch frame, yank forward, triumph lighting up my chest like a cheap fireworks stand in a parking lot behind a gas station, loud and intense.
The remote slides free, trailing dust like a captured comet that never achieved escape,
I pop up victorious, hair wild, knees popping, sweatshirt smeared with chip crumbs, looking like a hero who never left the snack isle, somehow still ready for triumph’s cape.
One, the house howls, then drowns in a wave of “Happy New Year” shrieks, kisses colliding, plastic cups clacking as if that sound blesses every poor choice yet to come,
My thumb hovers over the mute button for a heartbeat-heavy instant, tempted to kill the sound and freeze the moment, keep this ridiculous little living room the center of the universe, keep it loud and soft and dumb.
I press mute half a second too late, the cheer already spent in the room, echoing in the hallway and down the stairs,
Yet the TV drops into perfect silent pantomime, confetti falling on a crowd that now moves like fish behind glass, all glitter mouths and empty stares.
In that hush, someone’s laugh cracks open a tiny pocket of time I want to sink into until spring,
My partner hooks two fingers in my sweatshirt, drags me down beside them with that crooked grin, lips tasting like cheap bubbles and frosting and mischief and everything.
On the floor, party hats tilted like wounded soldiers, streamers draped over the lamp like drunken snakes clinging hard,
The old wall calendar droops from one thumbtack, December clinging for dear life, January hiding behind it like a first-time prisoner in a yard.
Outside, fireworks scratch the sky in noisy scribbles we don’t hear now that the TV sits quiet,
Inside, the countdown still lingers in the air, a ghost of numbers pacing like a drunk guardian, wondering if this house will riot.
Ten becomes the times I swore I’d get my act together and left the to-do list buried under takeout menus instead,
Nine stands for half-finished projects, songs half-written, sketches half-drawn, all the things that stopped mid-line when exhaustion pulled me back to bed.
Eight, the number of apologies I owe myself for treating my body like a crash test dummy in a life with no reset,
Seven, the nights I stayed up building worlds in my head, turning sorrow into riffs and stories, my pillow soaked in sweat.
Six, the exes who still haunt my playlists, four remembered fondly, two walked out like hurricane warnings nobody took seriously until the windows cracked and the furniture got wet,
Five, the dreams still on the shelf, labels curling, but not expired yet.
Four, the hours of sleep I’ll get once everyone leaves or collapses on couches and carpet,
Three, the chances the universe offered this last year that I watched pass by like trains through stations where I never quite stepped on, never claimed my ticket.
Two, the people in this room who know the way my throat tightens when the calendar turns, the way I joke through my terror of new starting lines,
One, the quiet truth hanging behind every noisy countdown in every living room and town square, that everyone here prays the next chapter moves kinder, even if nobody admits that they’re reading the same headlines.
My partner leans their head on my shoulder, remote captured under our hands like some holy relic of comfort and control,
They murmur, “You missed muting the kiss, but you nailed the moment,” and kiss my jaw in that spot that short-circuits every wise goal.
In that second, all the grand fireworks on the muted screen might as well shut off and walk away,
Our little room glows with crooked strands of color, crooked people, crooked resolutions, and something raw and real that chooses to stay.
Someone yells from the kitchen about burnt mini-quiches and the scandal of over-toasted garlic knots in the oven’s slow, tragic blaze,
A cousin knocks over a plastic flute and declares it a metaphor for last April, another one promises this year features “less chaos and more healthy ways to laze.”
We laugh until our ribs hurt, countdown numbers fading into that aching giggle aftershock that shows up once the pressure breaks,
Remote finally lands on the cushion between us, no longer an emergency artifact, just a battered wand we use for sitcom reruns and monster marathons and home-recorded mistakes.
Ten, nine, eight will come again next year, some other evening of cheap hats and loud kisses and someone yelling about missing the damn remote under the couch,
I’ll probably lose the thing again, toss it behind a cushion chasing a cat, or under a blanket alongside a guilty snack pouch.
Yet tonight, in the hush between deafening years, thumb still resting near mute like a secret spell I never fully cast,
I savor the unmuted chaos of this flawed little gathering, the smell of snacks, the crooked grin beside me, and the fact that for one more round of twelve cheap months, I’m still here, remote recovered, heart beating wild, not quite outclassed.