The Serbian plucked a bouquet of bold pink azalea clusters from its parent shrub and handed it to me.
“There you go, happy birthday!”
I
stuck it in my hair and we walked on home in evening shadows, skirting
the perimeter of the park to avoid the poopy stench of freshly applied
mulch, and speaking of pizza and things. We always talk about food on
the walk home because we’re always starving after work. On the other
hand, we’re always too fatigued to cook anything exotic, and so we just
dream of exotic dinners, then go home and eat convenience store food or
worse.
This
time, however, I stir-fried spears of asparagus. The azaleas went into
the bucket of whims. Birthdays are wonderful. Everyone made me feel so
strangely special. As much as I want to say that I don’t need that...
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