K. and I went out for birthday lunch at the place we like to go for dinner in the neighborhood. A strangely small lunch menu. Like, why open for lunch? We split a salad and a sandwich and were still hungry so we ordered dessert. The salty cream on top of the chocolate was really the best part. Next time we’ll ask for extra. I asked K. what I should do in my 42nd year. Do you want to write a book? Sure. What about? I didn’t find that second question all that helpful.


Somehow it was just so hilariously wonderful that the inedible quality of the food didn’t matter, the endless endless creaminess on everything, each limp cream-covered piece of penne, the ranch dressing heaped by the spoonful on each individual piece of lettuce, all the horror undone by sitting at the bar across from a giant television set at the Applebee’s by my office, watching the game with a bunch of off-shift nurses from the hospital up the block, they were downing happy hour signature cocktails and giggling and playing loud songs on the jukebox with their suitors, reminding me of a particuarly indelicate weekday afternoon I once spent at Coney Island that I’ll tell you all about when we know each other better. Oh, World Cup. Stick around forever.