February 18, 2012

My dearest,

We hear thunder. Explosions. Fireworks. We look at each other for half a second then rush out to the balcony, you grabbing your iPhone and me fiddling with the sliding door.

It’s not Chinese New Year, not even Valentine’s Day. Why are there fireworks? We ask this question aloud but we know the answer: Who cares, so long as there are fireworks?

You grumble and you curse. Your iPhone camera isn’t capturing the bursts quickly enough. Usually these displays last only a minute or two. Your time is running out. Except it doesn’t.

The fireworks get bigger and brighter and louder. Soon we are cheering the fireworks on. One particularly big explosion feels like an alien invasion, a 3D experience of a fireball launching in our direction. It goes on and on. The view is even better than we ever had of any fireworks display in the past. The sky lights up.

Now comes the final burst, a scattershot of what feels like a hundred fireworks, each faster and more fiery than the last. Then it’s over.

We are breathless. And then we start clapping. A standing ovation, a most well-deserved applause. It’s after eleven at night and we feel like children staying up past their bedtime. Such wonder, such mischief, such luck.

Our eyes gleam like stars.

Yours, ever and always.