CHALLENGE – USE THE FOLLOWING PHRASES:

candlelight

wine flute

midnight kiss

hey baby, why don't you come on over here and...

Extra virtual points for

giving the piece a New Years Theme

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HAPPY NEW YEAR’S EVE

by

gm

The thought of New Year’s Eve conjured warm, tingly thoughts in Napoleon Solo’s mind. A candlelight dinner for two in the evening, dancing at an intimate club, entwined arms as he and a luscious blond drank rare champagne from expensive wine flutes. All this delicious foreshadowing culminating in a delectable midnight kiss to celebrate the new year.

A deep sigh escaped, born of the enticing fantasies. The breath clouded in the freezing atmosphere. He sighed again, shivering under his black trench coat, irritated that his romantic imaginings would remain just ethereal wishes for another several days and nights. He could count on one hand the times he had actually been able to celebrate a holiday – Christmas, New Year, Fourth of July – even a birthday – in some cozy situation with the vivacious date of his choice.

A spy’s life was not conducive to enjoyment of mundane celebrations. In his profession, he had learned to find amusement, enjoyment, fulfillment, in creative and unusual methods. Admittedly, that was one reason he did not bother with relationships of any depth, meaning or commitment. His career encouraged a shallow existence without ties, bonds or complications. It DID help keep one’s life streamlined, sleek and without depth. A reflection of the disposable attitude of the profession. Such attitudes also encouraged an aloof barrier between agents and everyday people celebrating traditions and family-centered activities. Thus, Christmas, or New Year’s, then, became opportunities to party if possible, and shed any encumbering ties of the temporary ritual, then start the next new day with no obligation or emotional entanglement.

The slamming of a metal door echoed loudly on the quiet street. Holding his breath, Solo peaked around the corner and scanned the rain-soggy asphalt of the small byway. A recent rain-turned-sleet had left the black top glistening with icy crystals of frozen moisture, reflecting the weak, golden lamplight at the corner with sparkling bronze stars glittering the dismal scene.

The metal grated, clanked, and slammed again. A lone figure emerged from the shadows of the prison; hands buried deep in the pockets of a charcoal pea-coat, his head all but obscured by a knit cap. The thin figure stared at the ground as he walked, following the sidewalk from the dreaded jail, toward an intersection.

A taxicab careened around the corner and screeched to a halt. The lithe form did not flinch, but merely stopped at the edge of the curb, inches from the front bumper.

Napoleon’s heart stopped, agonized by the close call. He held his breath again as he watched, tense, hand on the stock of his Walther, poised to go into instant action if necessary. Everything had gone so smoothly up until now! Don’t let it fall apart so close to the end!

A very drunk woman with wildly curly, dark hair leaned out the window. “Hey baby, why don't you come on over here and we can celebrate! It’s almost New Year!”

The man in the black coat and trousers adroitly sidestepped the cab and continued toward the alley. Solo breathed out a sigh, realizing too late his breath was visible, and he buried his mouth in his jacket to hide the billowing vapor.

Illya had entered the prison on a mission to ascertain if a fellow UNCLE agent was dead or alive. What a grim assignment to start off the new year. It was their job, he didn’t argue or question. His only thought when being given the orders; two days ago when Kuryakin and he were sitting in Waverly’s warm office high above a sunny, if chilly, New York. He had been glad the two of them were sitting side by side -- receiving the mission to check on someone else – not Illya.

The shorter figure casually strolled past, then suddenly dipped into the dark alley, pressing his back flat to the old brick building, coming within inches of Solo’s shoulder.

“Mission accomplished?”

“Yes,” came Kuryakin’s quiet response. “Miller is dead. He has been for three days.”

The grim news came with the disappointment and mourning that accompanied all losses of agents. They were colleagues. Miller was his responsibility, one of his

Section Two operatives. And with the distress came a corresponding relief that it had been someone else this time, not his partner.

“Too bad.”

“Yes.”

The dim reflected light of the distant street light cast only the faintest illumination into the alley. In the weak glow he could make out Illya’s fair face and an edging of straw-colored hair peaking out from under the cap. The eyes that regarded him were nearly obscured in shadow, but he imagined the crisp, blue orbs sharply scrutinizing him, reading thoughts that were obvious and familiar.

“I’m glad . . . “ he let the statement under his breath. Superstition and masculine reticence prevented him from completing the thought. Reading the nearly inscrutable face before him, he knew there was no need to finish the emotional confession.

“I am also,” Kuryakin finished for him. Then gave a curt nod.

No need to say more, they both knew it was unnecessary. They were mutually grateful on this grave, depressing quest someone else had died, not their partner.

A distant bell chimed and echoed through the quiet streets with twelve peals. Revelers could be heard at some celebration streets away from the bleak area of the prison.

With a nod of his head, Kuryakin led the way toward the other side of the alley. They would make their way back to their modest hotel and pack their bags, then go straight to the airport. They were still in dangerous territory for UNCLE agents, and the sooner they left the better.

So, another New Year’s Eve had come and gone. So much for his vivid and enticing fantasies. Watching the shorter figure ahead of him, he considered this was not such a bad way to spend a holiday that would rarely go the way he hoped. This was not celebrating in a meaningless fashion – drowning in liquor and the attentions of a gorgeous woman whose name he would not remember when he awoke. Instead, he was with a blond with whom he had a relationship deeper than any girlfriend could ever achieve: Partner.

Happy New Year!