Sunday, December 3, 2006
He says it's the best day of the year: 364 days until her birthday. And there's no such thing as a dickie that doesn't zip. He breathes and the sugar wrappers fly across the table at her. Their first night together she told him not to breathe.
It's finally winter. Last night, her birthday, even with a heavy coat on, she was cold. (Though 22 years ago, the first birthday of their marriage, it was two degrees out). She should have been happy. She shouldn't have pushed through the crowd like that. She should have stopped and bought a scarf, cheap, on 8th Ave. It was down to 38 last night. Today, sitting at her desk, she has to pull down the shades, that hot winter sun aimed right at her.