Emma's shorts. It's the final countdown

Hello, lovelies.

Please enjoy a daily short story. It’s the Final Countdown.

“Get ready, for here we go! It’s the countdown to 2025!”

Geoffrey rolled his eyes as the DJ danced behind his ridiculously complicated, brightly lit mixing decks. Was it necessary to bring it all with him for this small office’s New Year’s Eve work party? With the added effect of spinning and flashing disco lights, and mood lighting, they’d turned off the office strip overhead lights, why was he so happy that the year was nearly over? Was the prospect for 2025 so earth-shatteringly different to the year that he’d just lived through? Well. If he was that happy, bopping out of time to cheesy pop music, then he obviously had a much better year than Geoffrey had.

“Here we go, ten!”

Why, Geoffrey thought, had he allowed himself to be dragged to this office party? He’d much rather be at home, alone and cracking open the expensive bottle of Glenmorangie that was hidden in a brown paper bag at the back of his wardrobe. It’s not as if he had any friends at work. He didn’t have time or the inclination to socialise with anyone here. Besides, they were all half his age at least. And, if, going by the current song that was blaring, they had nothing in common. But that bloody Helen had badgered him until he had agreed to attend, but he hadn’t planned on staying. No, he had planned on showing his face, waiting for about ten minutes and then slipping out the way he came and seeing in the new year by himself, glass in hand, and toasting midnight alone, no resolutions made and therefore none to be broken, and no drunken misdemeanours to weigh heavily throughout the coming twelve months. But Helen, no sooner than she had seen him, took him by the arm and led him around the cramped office, forcing him to talk to people.

“Nine!”

He had, most probably, just been included in some of the most awkward conversations of his life, and was sure that the unwilling recipients had felt the same. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk to them, he just didn’t know what to say. The age gap alone was a clear indicator of that. But Harry from accounts had introduced himself, before embarking on a long-winded chat of the importance of plants in the workplace. As Geoffery listened, he wondered if he should have told Harry about the allotment he works on every weekend. And that he could advise Harry on what was the best and most sustainable in the workplace.

"Eight!”

Then Helen introduced him to Joan, from media resources, who spoke of her dream of learning more about her family tree. She could, as she recounted in full, trace her mother’s side back seven generations. But became tearful when she said that her search for her father's family line had come to an abrupt end, as she had lost the trail and didn’t know how to carry on. Geoffery had never spoken to Joan before and was so baffled at why she was talking to him about what was, clearly, a deeply personal matter. But he nodded in all the right places and even suggested that she might try combing through her local library’s archives, to see if they could aid her search. She had looked confused and had asked him to walk her through how she could do that. So, he did. She silently stared at him, before pulling him into a tight hug. She squeezed him as he stood completely still, unable to move, with a look of pure bafflement on his face.

“Seven!”

He'd been there for long enough now, done everything that was expecting of him. It must be his time to escape. How much more could he endure? This was the most he had spoken to his work colleagues in the past year, and now that the year was coming to a close, they were taking turns to ram in as much as they could before the year was out.

“Six!”

After the first couple hours he’d tried heading for the exit, but Helen had handed him an overflowing paper plate of party food. Fluffy pastry sausage rolls and potato salad, cheese on sticks and twiglets. Things Geoffery had never seen before let alone eat them. He tried the orangey brown ball called an onion baggy or something. That was nice. As was the flattartter, fritterer, frittata. The omelettely thing, that was delicious. He’d eaten so much, that he didn’t need to eat the meal for one that was waiting for him at home. So at least that was a good thing.

“Five!”

But what was he going home to anyway? A silent flat and a large glass of expensive scotch whiskey. Okay, so it wasn’t expensive. But it was the best he could afford. And it wasn’t as if he was being ignored, quite the contrary. At one point there was a small queue forming in people that had wanted to talk to him. All are eager to communicate their hope and dreams for the coming year. Or impart their knowledge on the office gossip, even resulting in a nice little bit of banter. He didn’t even know he knew half of the comebacks. He had to admit that he enjoyed making them laugh. Even he chuckled when Loriane, laughing so hard, told him that that was the funniest thing she’d ever heard. He hadn’t known that he had it in him. Was going home alone more appealing than staying here?

“Four!”

Why hadn’t he tried to talk to any of them before now? Why hadn’t he at least tried to reciprocate when someone asked him a question? Had he always dismissed the small talk, putting it down to proximity to each other rather than an organic conversation? But what could he possibly contribute? He had underpants that were older than they were. And yet. And yet, he could honestly say that at least one of his colleagues would try to talk to him on a wide assortment of topics, not ever in a droning mechanical way. Were they trying all this time? Had he misread the situation the whole time? Would it have hurt him to look at the whole picture and not jump to the totally wrong conclusion?

“Three!”

Even if, and this was a very big if, they had been rude or intrusive, should he have always assumed the worst and been short or snappy in his replies? Wouldn’t it have been just as easy to have also reached out so that they could have met in the middle? And from the conversations he’d been enjoying throughout the evening, he might even have some knowledge or advice for his younger colleagues. In that old grandparent-type way.

“Two!”

And then there was Helen. The more he thought about her insisting that he come along, the more he thought about all the times that she had asked if he would like to join them at the local pub, or to be on their team at the office quiz night. Had he, all this time, overlooked the glaring fact that if only he had opened his eyes, he could have been part of something bigger than he was? He wouldn’t have always been alone. He could even make a friend. But what if he was wrong? Wouldn’t he just be making a huge fool of himself? But, then again, so what? At least they would have had something to laugh at. Why was he worried? Was that what he could expect in 2025? Reaching out and making his life so much richer and more colourful than he could have ever hoped for. Could he do it? Should he even try? What could go wrong? And this was the moment to make that decision. Which path into 2025 should he take?

“One!”

Happy New Year!