He remembered my birthday. Nobody remembers my birthday except my mother and Facebook.
I scarfed a piece of my shortcake and washed it down with my nightly medicine.
Straight jack out the bottle. No ice, no chaser. Dark. Strong. Painful going in especially when I take it to the head. Heavenly for my body, short term. Probably damaging my spirit– if I believed in that sort of thing, but oh so good for my mind. I’ll take the headaches. Next-day regrets. Just bring me ecstasy. Pleasure. That hard sleep I haven’t had since I was a child.
I ate another slice.
Sweet, soft, and rich like the nice brother down the hall who brought it for me. Such a solid dude. Always doing nice things for me. And I do nothing for him in return. Nice guy.
I slipped on my favorite lace panties. A skirt short enough to be a blouse.
Something comfortable that I could easily pull up or pull to the side if I was feeling adventurous.
Its. My. Birthday.
“God damn.” I grabbed my belly roll then looked over my shoulder.
My ass was definitely fatter too. Shit.
My mood darkened. I’m thirty five. Metabolisms slow at that age. Mom was skinny up to about my age as well. She was also married to Dad. Had two kids and was a decade into her nursing career. I was still hitting clubs and putting on expensive lingerie and my best perfume to fuck guys who never remembered my birthday or where they met me.
I lowered the music.
“The fuck?” I whispered to myself.
I felt weak. Emotional. Lost.
Nice brother down the hall tells me I had a pretty face. Even with the smile lines. Guys I messed with compliment my shape and how good I feel. But never how my eyes squint when I laugh. Interesting that the one guy that says the most beautiful things about me was the last man I’d think about fucking.
I ate another piece. Smaller than the last. Turned up the music. Started to whine like I was playin mas in Trinidad.
“I love soca!” I screamed.
Fuck the neighbors. It’s my birthday.
My phone rang.
Shit… nice brother from down the hall calling.
Forgot he had my number.
“Hmmm…” I watched the phone.
Nice brother was sweet… but can sweet collapse my walls and have me sore and shuffling like The Walking Dead into work the next day? Can sweet grab me by the hair and have me screaming bloody murder into my pillow case? Would sweet give me panic attacks and have me shaking, tossing, and turning at night in anticipation of getting split into oozing, bruised up pieces? Sorry… Sweet can’t.
I pushed ignore. “Maybe next time.”
I tossed the cake in the trash. Deepthroated the Jack bottle as I cranked up the music.
It’s my birthday. I wanted strong not sweet. I’d text nice brother gratitude tomorrow. Now, I’m enjoying what youth I have left.