Mandy

"Happy birthday," I said. "You're 23, right?"

She pulled a small drag out of her cigarette. "No," she exhaled. "Too old."

I swiveled on my heel, making a half-circle and finally facing away from her. "You're not old enough," I said just within earshot of the two of us.

In just under two hours, my workday begins. I will haul ass across the city from Lakeview to the Lower Garden District. I will make it to my apartment with plenty of time to toss today's outfit in the dryer and stand under the shower. I will glove and scarf and sweater and bicycle my way into the Central Business District. I will go to work. And at noon, I will leave and a lengthy, unmemorable Thanksgiving holiday will commence upon leaving.

But before that happens, I yell, "I love you."

I am approaching my car and she is behind me on the porch. I trudge forward, barley lifting my chin to bark the sentiment over my shoulder.

"I love you," she shouts back.

My first impulse is not to appreciate the moment, but to appreciate the fact that she didn't punctuate her response with a comma and a "too." It's an asshole's reaction, but I know she'll understand when I joke about it later.

I slide the key into the ignition, but I don't turn it. First, I've got to find the right driving music. I scroll and tap my way through Spotify until I find "Dancing In The Moonlight" by King Harvest. It's been in my head all night.

For a few moments, I sit still and listen to the lyrics. And then, when the chorus starts, I twist the key and yank the seatbelt across my chest to keep myself safe.