The Buttered Bread

Endless bottles of bubbly opened, pink candles light cutesy cupcakes. We celebrate, even when we suspect we should be mourning.

How old we grow, when no one is watching. How quickly the time passes, while we are busy being mortals.

I forget that time passing means soon they will be back in their homeland, in their routines and steady jobs, paying bills and behaving like proper adults. I forget that time passing means I am not spending mine figuring out what to best do with it.

We will all die. Some sooner than others. We will grow old, and wrinkled, we will lose these bodies we didn't love but will come to see as beautiful when it is too late. We will speak of our youth in terms of if only I knew then what I know now. Hell, we already do.

In the brick staircase, a lonely fire alarm signals that it is running out of energy. Beep, beep into the night. It echoes slowly, piercingly. We drink our aged Nicaraguan rum, tip extra for our tipsy misbehavior, and trip up the stairs to the West Village night. Take the long way home to stretch our high heeled shoes and marvel at the numbers. When we were young, birthdays were the source of unrivaled ecstasy. We are not young, any more. The answers are not as easy.

But lord, we do walk better in high heels than we ever did then.