He is forty-six

He walks into the diner, with his hands up, excited to share the news.

He's turning forty-seven!

He looks all around, licking the eyes of all in the room, minding their own business. Then he looks at me.

And I look at him.

And he smiles the biggest smile I have ever seen.

He emanates the happiness that left so many Monday's ago.

I wonder if he's gotten used to the thoughts, that he's going to be alone forever. Or perhaps he has decided that they never mattered.

Well, wouldn't it be pretty to think so?
Or to know rather that the same snake that strangles me
has gently wrapped around this man's neck as a companion, not as a rival?

It's perplexing to me that I find it funny that he looks at me funny.

Entertaining people with my feigned stupidity has become funny
even to myself, and to the sparrow that died years ago.

The sparrow dove out of the nest to slam into the concrete sidewalk of Parker Avenue. Right next to Wrigley.

Or at least as close as I allow myself to get to Wrigley knowing that I killed myself there and many people have also killed themselves in similar places.

He asks me, "Isn't it great? Nearly another fifty years!".

I can't talk, my mouth is cotton; doesn't he know everything about me though? Don't they all? Wouldn't it be easier to pass me by rather than pity me?

I reply, "That's awesome, here's to another fifty".