Tomorrow the gutters will run with streamers, rainbows singed at the edges by the street, laying fallow and forgotten.

But that is tomorrow.

Tonight the air is aflutter with wishes for midnight kisses, numbers written on damp bar napkins with running ink, promises for the new year, lover’s confetti and dreamer’s cheap paper horns.

Tonight something from the shadows has wrapped its loving arms around her and she is crying at the bar. She pinches the tears from the corners of her eyes and when their tide becomes too great, she uses the bar napkins. Discarded, they crumple around her glass like little clouds.

Whiskey number six has been poured and with it the stage of a drunk where he is alone despite the crowded bar or the people with him. He sees her tears and the crowd of napkins. One of her girlfriends stands at her shoulder and tries to bring her out of it. He sips his whiskey, thinks of the handkerchief in his back pocket and argues with himself.

-Remember, you’ve an over-active rescue complex.

I know, he answers.

-Make sure this isn’t because you’re attracted to her.

 I’m not.

-If you do this, it must be a clean gesture.

I agree.

The argument lasts as long as it takes him to empty his glass. He places the handkerchief in front of her and moves away without a word.

With another whiskey in hand, he sees her pick at the piece of white cloth. Shaking his head, he knocks back the liquor and settles his tab and says his goodbyes. On the street, over lighting a cigarette, he sees the crying girl and a man next to her examining the handkerchief as if it was a cave painting. He might be her boyfriend or he might just be a man who wants to be.

-You are really a very strange man.

I know.

The man who might be her boyfriend stares out of the window of the bar, glaring at him. Whatever threat he is hoping to convey, it doesn’t make it through the glass.

-You’ve seen too many Cary Grant films.

I know, but the world should be similarly afflicted.

-Switch to Bogart for a while. Or Cagney.

Good idea.

-It’s a good thing chivalry is dead.

I know, handkerchiefs are expensive.