“60 seconds, babe,” I whisper in your ear with a light kiss to your temple before laughing as you swat me away.

It’s New Year’s eve, and all day long you’d been adamant on some belief of yours that any kiss in the 24 hours before January 1st was bad luck. Why? I have no idea. But you were stuck with your little superstition, which meant I was too.

You wouldn’t even believe how difficult it’s been to go just 24 hours in your presence without even a peck.

But now the two of us are in the crowded street of New York City, watching the famous ball slowly descend while the clock counts down the remaining 60 seconds of 2012. My arms around your waist, holding you tight against me, while our eyes are trained up on the numbers.