When he woke it was with awareness that it was his birthday and thus with an ebullience lacking on most other days when waking and rising were almost painful, at least relative to the contoured comfort of the womb-like bed that held him gently and all but captive.
The hardwood floors were cold in the new apartment, so when he entered the kitchen, bed-headed and still rubbing sleep from his eyes, he was sure to stand in the narrow slats of morning light that shone through the westerly wall’s window.
She saw him, smiled warmly, and said, “Hey, birthday boy.”
He smiled in return as she opened the refrigerator and retrieved a single cupcake with a single candle in the shape of an 8. At this he smiled wider and shook his head with embarrassment. She’d been this way with him recently—kinder, more playful, a little over-the-top in her sincerity and generosity, yet somehow distant. He knew the change had to do with his dad dying.
She lit the candle and set the cupcake on the bar at which he’d taken a seat. “Do you want me to sing?” she said, skeptically, knowing he was sensitive to that kind of thing.
“Maybe later,” he said and blew out the candle, then slowly pulled the stem out through the frosting.
As he ate, she said, “Do you want real breakfast, too?”
He nodded yes but added, mouth still full of cupcake, “I’ll do it.”
Once he’d grabbed a bowl, spoon, milk, and cereal and sat back down, she said, “Ok, you get two of your presents this morning and then one more surprise later tonight.” There was a twinkle in her eye that was only there when she knew she’d done something right, something sure to please him.
“Ok,” he said.
“Now?”
He said yes as he took a big bite of cereal, so she went to retrieve his gifts from the secret space in which she’d hidden them. A moment later, she returned with two boxes covered in baby blue wrapping paper.
“Small one first,” she said and handed the smaller rectangle to him.
He tore the paper away violently and smiled when he saw what his present was. “Stranger Things,” he said with enthusiasm as he inspected the elaborate packaging—a Blu-ray in the style of an old VHS cover. “Awesome,” he said and thanked her and held the boxed set to his chest. “Tonight?” he said.
“We’ll see,” she said and gestured to the slightly bigger box, giving him the go-ahead to open it.
It didn’t take long for him to realize that beneath the thin wrapping paper was a Nike shoebox. “For real?” he said.
She nodded and fought back the pangs of cathartic relief at seeing this person she loved truly happy—happy because of her and for the first time in many months. It was lucky, she thought, that he had a tendency toward collecting—toys, movies, and more recently (and expensively) sneakers—so that with the right information, gift-giving was relatively easy and genuinely satisfying for both of them. And he was good about supplying such information. He’d been watching some TV show a few months back and seen an actor wearing what a quick Google search on her iPad had told him were Nike Air Force 1 ‘07 LV8 Sail/Midnight Navy/ Gum Brown sneakers. Then, just a couple weeks ago—on Valentine’s day, actually—he’d told her that a friend of his had a similar pair, and she knew he was thinking about his upcoming birthday. She’d secretly written down the shoe’s specifics and now here they were and here he was hugging and thanking her.
After she had relished his gratitude for a moment, she said, “You’re gonna be late.”
He collected his new stuff and started back down the hallway while she began making their daily turkey sandwiches.
In a remarkably short amount of time he had showered and dressed and pulled his packed lunch box from the fridge, for which, on this day, he’d remembered to thank her. She offered to drop him off, but he insisted on riding his bike, as he’d done since they moved, a tendency which he explained as a result of the new apartment’s proximity to the school and wider bike lanes on the new route but which she suspected had more to do with his recent and unconscious sense of independence.
With her perfunctory “Be careful,” his helmet was on, and he was out the door and pedaling down the neighborhood street, eyes down intermittently to watch his new shoes shining. In addition to the exercise it afforded, riding his bike allowed him to park right next to the school’s entrance so that he was almost never late. He raced over the asphalt of the teacher’s parking lot, through the immaculate grass of the courtyard, and towards the entrance of the massive orange brick building.
Winded, he walked through the hallway looking down, smiling at the good fortune of his stylish new shoes but feeling for the first time their incongruence with the rest of his outfit—khakis and a navy Polo. A little self-conscious now, as he walked by the glass wall to the principal’s office, he checked his reflection and didn’t see Principal Nolan—the new principal—waving a warm welcome to him until it was too late. He looked up just in time to see Principal Nolan turning away and shaking his head with what looked to be frustration. He gave a quick, futile wave to the principal’s back and continued toward his classroom, chastising himself all the way.
The school day passed just as many others had—routines of worksheets and videos, test prep and its attendant fear-mongering. His time at this school, despite the sentimental way he’d heard others talk about it, consisted mostly of doing what he was told. He received instructions and carried them out. These thoughts reminded him of his dad’s job, the nature of which he’d never been exactly sure, but he’d been to his office a few times and had discerned that his dad had been far from in charge. He did his best to shake this sad thought from his mind.
The monotony of the school day necessitated small diversions, the most appealing of which was the Word of the Day—one of the most routinely educational parts of his day. The Word of the Day appeared on the school’s TVs in classrooms, hallways, and even bathrooms. On his way to lunch he noticed that today’s word was Nostalgia, a word which, he read on to learn, came from the Greek words meaning “return home” and “pain.” He made a mental note of this trivia fact as the Word of the Day was a recurring topic of discussion at dinner.
Just after lunch, while he and his fifth period class were logged into learning modules, he secretly checked his school email and saw he had two unread messages. The first, which he intentionally avoided, was from a funeral home. The second was from his mom, who had lately been in the habit of texting and emailing him even more regularly than she used to. The message was a simple one of encouragement and an invitation to message back if he felt like he needed to. Surrounded as he was by students, he didn’t. This message, though, did brighten his spirits when it, for whatever reason, reminded him that he still had a birthday surprise waiting for him at home. The rest of the schoolday passed slowly in anticipation of what the night would bring.
When he got home he went straight for the Playstation 5 in the living room—a gift from two years ago—and played until she arrived home from work. She kissed him on the forehead in greeting, his eyes still firmly focused on the game. He asked what was for dinner.
“It’s your birthday,” she said. “You tell me.” When he didn’t respond for a few moments, she said, “We could order a pizza. I could go pick us up something from that chicken place you like.”
“Oooh, I know,” he said suddenly, pausing the game. “How about pancakes?”
She inhaled deeply and glanced over at the kitchen sink—full of dirty dishes—but on the exhale said, “Pancakes it is.”
He resumed his game, and as she walked toward the kitchen he asked about his surprise. “Later,” she said with a hint of irritation unnoticed by him, obscured as her words were by the digital gunfire coming from his game.
When he got tired of the game, he switched the TV’s source to the one connected to the Blu-ray player and inserted the first disc of Stranger Things season one. He watched the menu’s multicolored lights twinkle and, as the sweet smell of pancakes began to drift in from the kitchen, wished that she would join him on the couch. He lamented that these days they only seemed to see each other in passing, so busy were they with their respective lives, lives made more distinct by the isolation inherent in the pain of the death of a loved one. But this was more a distant feeling than a conscious thought. For such emotional liquid he had no linguistic ladle, not yet at least.
As he stuffed his face with pancakes drenched in maple syrup, she did indeed ask about the Word of the Day. He told her that it was Nostalgia but did not mention the etymology.
She scoffed. “That’s kind of an easy one,” she said.
He shrugged and continued eating.
After dinner she did the dishes and agreed to one episode of Stranger Things. When the second episode was over, she said it was bedtime, so he reluctantly turned off the TV but remembered a birthday surprise was still on the way.
He brushed his teeth, rinsed his face, put on his favorite pajama bottoms, and got into bed with sleep far from his mind.
Several minutes later, she came in in her robe, a towel tied around her wet hair. She sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his leg lovingly.
Not wanting to seem overeager about his still-yet-to-materialize surprise, he said, “How was your day?”
She was caught off-guard by this question, both in how uncharacteristic it was for him to ask and by just how badly she realized she’d needed it asked. She took a deep breath. “It was ok,” she said. “Work is just a little crazy right now.”
He knew any further inquiry on his part would invite a full-blown work story, which he always found difficult to follow, so foreign to him was the world of her work-place. But he could tell she was upset about something, so against his better judgment he said, “What’s wrong?”
“I know you don’t want to hear this,” she said and looked at him to assess his level of disinterest, which appeared to be less than some of the other times she’d brought up her office. “Do you remember Amy?” she said, pushing her back against the headboard so that she was sitting next to him in the bed.
He squinted, scratched his head.
“You’d remember if you saw her,” she said. “She was so rude to me today. Rude about you.”
This got his attention. “How so?” he said.
“Did you see what I posted on our Instagram about your birthday?”
He shook his head.
“It was just this digital birthday card thing that said ‘Happy Birthday to my special man’ with a big eight on it.”
At “special man” he winced.
“I was showing some of the girls at lunch, and Amy gave me this weird look, so I was like, ‘What?’ She was like, ‘I just think it’s kind of weird.’ So I was like, Oh, she doesn’t get it, so I explained how you were born on February 29th and the leap year thing and how you’ve only technically had eight birthdays. And she’s like, ‘No I get it. I just think it’s weird that you’re like leaning into it so hard.’ And I was like, ‘Well I’m sorry to make you feel weird.’”
By now she was agitated and breathing heavily, so she pulled him against her and rested her head on his shoulder. “Do you think it’s weird?” she said.
“No way, babe,” he said as he massaged her thigh. “Amy’s a fucking bitch.” His hand slid up her thigh and under her robe and the issue was lost in their lust. He climbed on top of her, pulled her robe open, buried his face in her breasts, and inquired once again about his surprise.
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