“He’s not coming, is he?” I squeezing my mother’s hand, the multi-colored party hat on my head slipping down. My mother squeezed back, and without a word walked back inside the house.
He dreaded his birthday. He couldn’t help making an unconscious tally every year of who phoned or e-mailed and who didn’t and he preferred not to be so painfully aware of which friends and family members didn’t care enough to remember.
I kept looking up at this giant Happy Birthday balloon floating above the cubicle next to me like it was a really tall person’s head staring back in disapproval. Finally I jumped at it with a letter opener and stabbed it to death and everyone though I was trying to stab Kelly until I explained everything to HR and the police and was fired, by not arrested.
So what if I equate love with sex?
You equate love with fucking birthday presents.
I’m getting Jesus a Tonka truck for his birthday this year.
I’ll keep it until he turns up.
My birthday wish came true.
All the air turned to custard.
Your birthday passed on by and I pretended not to really think about it.
But I could think of nothing else.