I was eating a sandwich and watching Ted make a casserole. I know his birthday, and he knows mine, it turns out.
His is soon. Mine is far.
“But my birthday is always sucky,” I told him, and it’s true. For years and years it’s ranged to mediocre to really miserable.
“Well, then I have a goal for this year,” with a glance over his shoulder.
He turns back to chopping chicken and misses the wide-eyed, eyebrow-raised face I make.
I should let it go. But I want to hear him say it.
“So. You think you’ll be around for my birthday? It’s a long time.”
We count off months. It’s far. We’d both more than double our adult dating records.
“At this point, I have no reason to think I won’t be.”
And even though his casserole looks disgusting, neither do I.