Asher ✓

33 | stranger

JANUARY 1, 2014 / TIMES SQUARE

There were too many chandeliers in the VIP section.

The fact mocked him; everything about the penthouse suite did. The scintillating wine glasses, jewelled lampshades, looking nicer than Asher ever would; he felt out of place with opulence of it all. He was the rock that miners threw away, heading straight for bigger diamonds. The diamonds in the room were sparkling and laughing, having stripped out of the skin and skill that made them known. They embraced who they were before the fame; no — under the fame.

Asher left Leon Lonzano and his wife once realising he was only intruding, slipping into a conversation with a model. And then into a bedroom to make out. He never caught her name, but largely only because she never bothered to tell him. When they came out of the bedroom, she rearranged her hair and acted like nothing happened. Asher didn't care. Call her a fling.

The rise and fall of her chest when she breathed, how his hands fit into the curve of her back. All the memories could be easily erased, washed down with some tequila.

Everyone came with a date, even those that weren't dating. Alone again, Asher found solace in a bottle of lager, and some shrimp cocktails. At seventeen, he liked to think that he'd grasped the technique of drinking and not getting drunk. But, he was well on the way to getting wasted except this time, it was intentional. 

The fog in his mind would cover anything he didn't want to see, and wrap around him until he felt warm again. Asher wanted to feel warm, and alcohol was the way to do it.

He stood up from the chaise, feeling blood rush out of his head. It took his balance with him, leaving him swaying woozily before shaking his head and walking out to the balcony. Asher had lost most of clothing in his frenetic interaction with the lingerie model, and was left in only his shirt and trackpants. He put both hands on the balcony, feeling the icy steel sting him immediately. Leaning forward until his forehead was resting on the smooth metal, Asher watched the festivities carry on below through the gaps in the railing.

Times Square was a painting that night. 

Every person packed into was only a dot of paint, insignificant to Asher from how high up he was. The real features were the jumbotrons, lit up in technicolour, one showing the countdown. Big brands like Coca-Cola and Nike were relaying their holiday greetings through the screens. 

The red, blue and white balloons that were being handed out saturated the crowd until those were the only colours Asher could see. It was easier to spot the spaces the news crews and other VIP sections occupied from the balcony — they were the dark shadows in all the lights, the empty parts in an ocean of people.

An acclaimed band was finishing their set; the last chord the guitarist had played was still throbbing in Asher's ears, though the screaming was even louder. The lead singer had his arms spread wide as if to embrace every one of the people in the crowd. 

Asher wondered what Ryanel and Kerrish were doing. There was no way he could find them just by looking. Everyone looked the same, each like a grain of sand on the beach. A million people never looked so negligible to Asher, watching the crowd ripple like a static TV screen. Maybe this was what celebrities saw everyday.

When the countdown started, Asher made no move to take his head off the railing. The cold hugged his body; his breaths came out shaky and frosted, like winter's cigarette. The jumbotron at the top of One Times Square was showing the seconds left to the New Year.