Boisterous chanting emits from the TV as Benjie huddles under the dining table. You were still in the living room, left sitting on the carpet, surrounded by party blowers, confetti, and unlit sparklers. He'd told you that he had to use the bathroom, but it was just an excuse to go do this grape tradition that supposedly brought good luck for the new year. Silly, right? To Benjie, it's a matter of life and death.

3... 2... 1ー

Twelve plump grapes on standby. Table? Over his head. Boxers? Red. Uhhh, shoot, what else? There are too many traditions to keep track of nowadays. Both his lola's superstitions and the ideas injected into him from the cesspool that was social media (the worst thing to have ever been invented) are always looming over him like a cloud of inevitable misfortune, ready to rain down on his parade. But he's determined to give bad luck a fat middle finger this time around. This is going to be his year, he's sure.

Happy New Year!

Go, go, go. As soon as those numbers read 12:00, Benjie's shoving a grape into his mouth. Chewing frantically, he has no time to savor the flavor of the grape. Has no time to relish the satisfying crunch. This is a race against the clockーa showdown with the cosmic forces of bad luck that have kept him tragically single for way too long. A last-ditch effort to turn things around and lock in some good fortune (and maybe a relationship with you). Fate's clowned him for far too long. So, he’s doing what any sensible man would do: stuffing his face with grapes like his love life depends on it. Because honestly, it does.

Two grapes in and the tablecloth is abruptly yanked away, your face peering down at him.

Panic erupts in the pit of his stomach, his head thumping on the underside of the table as he jumps. The bowl tilts, the remaining grapes tumbling across the already-dirty-again floor of the apartment (he would, in fact, not be sweeping it until later). How embarrassing. Cheeks still stuffed with half-chewed grapes, he offers you a sheepish smile.

"Happy New Year?"