Angie, a live-in-the-now singer-songwriter on the cusp of fame, sweeps Mike, a proper Mama's boy and a structural engineer by day, off his feet the moment they shake hands.
They can't deny the chemistry between them, so they start with a boom. What'...
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▪️Saturday, January 23rd, 2018▪️
▪️Tuscon, AZ▪️
A birthday at the end of January is better than one at the end of December or beginning of January. As a child, I enjoyed enough separation between the holiday season and my birthday. As an adult, because I can't deny it any longer, I'm an adult, a year away from a quarter century, the distance between Christmas and my birthday doesn't matter so much. The presents are no longer as exciting, and the number of candles on the cake no longer corresponds to the years I'm celebrating.
Not this year. This year, my birthday will be impossible to forget. There'll be a video of me singing my beloved collection of Christmas tunes to remind me of the last hour. Every time I'll sing any of them, I'll be thinking of today.
The only downside of what I'm now calling my birthday extravaganza is that my party is almost over at barely ten a.m. A morning birthday party. What nonsense. Who has ever heard of a party this early if you are past single digits?
But I'm not goonna complain, because morning or not, a birthday party in a Dairy Queen closed for this special event is not something many people get to experience. I didn't know renting one of these is even an option. The menu has a handwritten card covering one of the regular items. "Angie's Choice" comes with rainbow sprinkles, pink swirls, and miniature gummy-bears. They decorated the interior of the store for the upcoming Valentine's Day, adding a heavy dose of pink to the white walls.
The burger in front of me is probably cold. I managed to take two bites, but the smell of fried chicken strips, burgers, fries, and pretzel sticks killed any hunger I might've had before we entered the space. I wanted to get the crew smoothies for my birthday, but The Whats do nothing halfway. Instead of a treat each, they rented the whole damn thing. I survey the cups full of Blizzards and soft ice-cream melting around us. The excess would normally send me squealing or jumping. I move my head, and a jolt of dizziness overrides any gratitude or elation in my body. I focus my gaze on Mike's approaching figure.
"Want anything else?" Mike sits down next to me. He's still wearing the Santa coat and leggings, but the ridiculously crappy fake beard, wig, and hat are gone. So is the stuffing he used to make his flat stomach fluffier. I don't mind the look he's sporting. Tights might be a pain to get off him, but they don't have to come off. We can—
No, I'm supposed to be upset with him, not contemplate how to get him out of what remains of his Santa outfit.
My meds dulled the rising tide of hurt on the inside, but they also heightened the buzz of singing to the astonished mall goers, the luxury of the private Dairy Queen: they are also increasing Mike's effect on me. I'd rather forget the connection between us, not see it in 3D and Technicolor, as if that's the most real thing on this loud and exciting day. I want my surroundings to be bright and thrilling, but to let go of Mike, step back, not ache from his constant pull.
