Yesterday, [all my troubles seemed so far away] I celebrated the continuation of my twenty-third year of existence. It wasn't because I'm actually incredibly old for my age and can't accept it; I just regard even numbers with disfavor, as in this case: 24.
In past years, when August rolled in with its stifling hot air, I would start announcing that it's almost my birthday. This year I wasn't ___ with anticipation. Maybe I really have become sad with this life, or I really have "grown up". Surely I haven't grown up; I could never allow myself to grow up entirely...
This year, I received a surprise in the form of a lanky, curly-haired boy exactly 1 year and 10 days older than I. He wore a black sweater and sprinkles of hair on his face. There was a thin line of a smile. The reason for his arrival was unexpected considering our last encounter; yet all the same he stood there before me. Solid, real, reachable, touchable, breatheable, prickly.
And all I had with me was a cough from Paris,
interrupting all my expressions of gratitude.
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