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The lamplight on the streets last night gave off mini auroras through my smoke smudged glasses and for a moment I felt like I was walking on water, but that was just the alcohol working its way through my brain, playing tricks with balance. The music from the club echoed in the back of my head and footsteps matched an anonymous rhythm. I reached for keys in black suit pants pockets and stopped when I heard someone yelling behind me, "hey, Cris, wait up."
She was a half block behind me, half walking, half running and I waited for her to catch up, watching her smile getting closer.
"Have a good birthday?" she asks.
and it takes me a moment to answer her, because I'm thinking of past birthdays when I was a boy and recalling memories of pool parties, half-days off from school and candles that I would blow out with wishes that I wanted to be true. And I thought of more recent years, and how this night stacked up against sitting up on a roof overlooking the river, eating cake with bare hands and slipping a finger between lips offering to clean off a bit of frosting -- or walking into a friend's apartment and being, truly, genuinely caught off guard by a room of people yelling surprise -- or spinning in a club and hitting an even groove while friends leave a line of drinks stacked outside the booth.
And I told her that I couldn't complain about this one. The nice dinner at a nice restaurant, the one furious hour at the club, the string of hugs and smiles and "I don't go out much anymore, but hey it's you, right?" -- that's nothing to complain about. It's the first one I've ever celebrated with both friends and family, though not at the same time, and that was important in a certain way. I wished I could've gotten to the club earlier, had more time to talk to friends, stretch out the introductions to new ones, but that was just a wish, and not a complaint.
"You ok to drive back?" The question comes half-serious and half-joking, possibly bemused at my slow words and lax manner. I'm probably better company this way, when I'm not tense, or burdened, or preoccupied. And I tell her that I'll be fine, and that I've been worse -- far worse -- and I've always found my way home. I always find my way home, but I'm also glad for friends who offer help.
She was a half block behind me, half walking, half running and I waited for her to catch up, watching her smile getting closer.
"Have a good birthday?" she asks.
and it takes me a moment to answer her, because I'm thinking of past birthdays when I was a boy and recalling memories of pool parties, half-days off from school and candles that I would blow out with wishes that I wanted to be true. And I thought of more recent years, and how this night stacked up against sitting up on a roof overlooking the river, eating cake with bare hands and slipping a finger between lips offering to clean off a bit of frosting -- or walking into a friend's apartment and being, truly, genuinely caught off guard by a room of people yelling surprise -- or spinning in a club and hitting an even groove while friends leave a line of drinks stacked outside the booth.
And I told her that I couldn't complain about this one. The nice dinner at a nice restaurant, the one furious hour at the club, the string of hugs and smiles and "I don't go out much anymore, but hey it's you, right?" -- that's nothing to complain about. It's the first one I've ever celebrated with both friends and family, though not at the same time, and that was important in a certain way. I wished I could've gotten to the club earlier, had more time to talk to friends, stretch out the introductions to new ones, but that was just a wish, and not a complaint.
"You ok to drive back?" The question comes half-serious and half-joking, possibly bemused at my slow words and lax manner. I'm probably better company this way, when I'm not tense, or burdened, or preoccupied. And I tell her that I'll be fine, and that I've been worse -- far worse -- and I've always found my way home. I always find my way home, but I'm also glad for friends who offer help.
