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.

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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.