Having a quiet New Year’s drink on your own isn’t such a bad thing, Dana Peyton decided.

As she sipped her pink Moscato – strictly cheap stuff, but delicious – she surveyed the living room with satisfaction.  A fire burned in the fireplace, the ball was about to fall in Times Square on the television screen…

…and she was alone.  Blissfully, wonderfully alone.

There were no noisy, drunken party guests to contend with, no empty champagne flutes or ashtrays to clear away; no stains on the carpet, no pots of coffee to make or stacks of dishes to wash; and NO drama.

Alex, her almost-ex-husband, had stopped by earlier to drop off their daughter Becky.  He’d handed Dana a bottle of Pierre Jouet (‘no hard feelings’), pecked her on the cheek, wished her a Happy New Year, and left.  He didn’t invite himself to stay, he didn’t try to seduce her, and he didn’t start an argument.

Moodily, Dana took another sip of her Moscato.  Something was up.  Alex was never so well behaved.  The fact that he hadn’t tried to worm his way back into her good graces – or her bed – could mean only one thing.

He must have a new woman.

Who could his new girlfriend be? she wondered.  Another lawyer?  A paralegal?  An 18-year-old supermarket check-out girl?

Dana finished her drink and went to the fridge to pour herself another. She was surprised to see that the bottle was almost empty. Oh, well, she’d just have to grab her coat, call a taxi, and go out and buy some more.

Who wanted to sit home alone and watch the stupid ball drop, anyway?

Fifteen minutes later, the taxi arrived.  With a coat thrown over her jeans & sweatshirt, Dana settled herself in back seat of the taxi and told the driver, “Take me to DC, please, up the GW Parkway. I want to see the Lincoln Memorial at night.  But first-” she peered at his name “-first, Daryl, I need to get another bottle of this pink fizzy stuff.  Okay?”

He nodded. “Sure.  They’re calling for snow tonight.”

As the taxi pulled away, Dana smiled.  “That’s perfect. I love snow.”

When she and Alex were first married, they used to go for a drive on the George Washington Parkway.  They’d end up at Mount Vernon, or stop in Old Town Alexandria to stroll the shops. They used to hold hands, back then.  They’d have dinner in some romantic little restaurant; and sometimes, they’d sit on the steps of the Lincoln memorial, and talk.

What on earth had they talked about?  She couldn’t even remember.

“Lady,” the driver warned her as she returned from the all-night liquor store with a bottle & two plastic flutes, “the fare’s not gonna be cheap.”

Dana shrugged.  “No problem. I have my husband’s black AmEx card. He hasn’t cancelled it yet.”

He shook his head. “Jeez.  Poor guy.”

Dana said indignantly, “That ‘poor guy’ earns a bigger annual salary than the President. And he cheated on me more times than I could count…”

Her voice trailed off as the Lincoln Memorial glided into view, dramatically illuminated.  It always took her breath away. But… wait a minute. Someone else was already here.

A long, black limousine was parked near the bottom of the steps. A man and woman, both elegantly dressed, stood together halfway up the steps.  Again, she caught her breath. Was it Alex? she wondered with sudden dread.  Was he sharing a romantic moment with a new woman, right here, just like the two of them used to do?

But it was a middle-aged couple, in their late fifties or early sixties. The man – distinguished, his dark hair silvered at the temples – reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a small white box. “For you, darling,” he murmured as he presented it to the woman. “I love you even more than the day I married you.”

And to add the perfect touch, it began to snow – fat,swirling flakes that soon dusted the steps with white.

Dana’s eyes welled with tears. All she’d ever wanted was to share a moment like this with Alex, the man she’d married… the only man she’d ever really loved. But it hadn’t happened. And now, with their divorce looming, it never would happen.

“Lady,” the cab driver called out, “we oughta head back. The roads are getting bad.”

Wordlessly Dana turned away and walked back to the car.  As they pulled away, she began to weep. “I hate my husband,” she sobbed, “the cheating, lying skunk! Why couldn’t he love me like that?  Why c-couldn’t he be happy with just m-me? Why wasn’t I ever enough for him?”

“Your husband’s an idiot,” he said, and met her eyes in the rear-view mirror. “He must be crazy.”

“Thanks,” Dana said with a sniffle, and gave him a watery smile. She glanced out the window at the rapidly deteriorating road conditions. “Sorry for bringing you out in this weather. Will we make it back?”

“Sure. Might take a while,but we’ll get there. Music?”

She nodded. “Yes, please.”

He switched on the radio, and the soft strains of a Mozart concerto filled the darkened interior. Dana, suddenly overcome with exhaustion, leaned her head back and closed her eyes, just for a minute…

“Hey. We’re back. You’re home.”

“Oh.”  Dana blinked and sat up. Sure enough, the cab had pulled halfway into the drive in front of the house. There must have been six inches of snow piled up.  “How much do I owe you?”

He glanced at the meter, then back at her. “Two hundred and forty-five dollars.”

She opened her purse and fumbled for her wallet, then ran the AmEx card through the credit card reader and signed her electronic signature. “Thanks,” she said, and leaned forward to hold out a hundred-dollar bill. “This is for you.”

He shook his head. “Nah, keep it. It’s okay.”

“No, I insist. You drove me all over town, you listened to my sob story, and you got me home despite the snow on the roads.  Please, take it.”

“Well…all right. Will you be okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” she assured him as she got out of the car.

He waited until she reached the door and inserted her key in the lock, then blew the horn once.  Dana waved and shut the door.

The next morning she woke with a hangover and a vague memory of crying in the back seat of the cab.  Mortification swept through her. Thank God she’d never see that driver again. He’d probably have a good laugh recounting the story of the sad, drunk lady he’d driven to the Lincoln Memorial on New Year’s Eve.

As she opened the front door to retrieve the Washington Post from the porch, she noticed an envelope taped to the door.  Inside was her hundred-dollar bill, and a note.

Happy New Year. I hope you’re okay. If you want to grab a coffee sometime, or if you just need someone to talk to, call me.  Daryl

P.S. – Your husband’s an idiot.

Dana smiled down at the note in her hand.  “Happy New Year, Daryl,” she murmured.

“Mom! You’re home!” Becky exclaimed as she came into the kitchen. “Where’d you go last night? Are you okay?”

“Of course I am.” She smiled and hugged her daughter. “I’m fine. Now, how about breakfast?”