The Killing of Baby Harp Seals

I arrive at the restaurant first and give them the reservation name and they lead me to a private room. Slowly my friends begin to arrive, except for my one friend Lacy, who couldn't make it because she couldn't find a babysitter to watch her monster of a kid.

We are here to celebrate yet another birthday. My birthday! As my cake comes out, I look at the wax candle, “40,” as the staff quietly cheer and my friends sing the song.

I smile wanly as we finish up at the restaurant. The plan after this is to make our way to a few clubs and eventually end up back at Sally’s house, because she has the nicest place. My friends love my birthday because it allows them to relive our college years: no worries, no responsibilities, they get to party like they’re young. It’s all fun and games, but at the end of the night, they’ll go home to their spouse and family while I am left facing another sad hunt on Tinder or another lonely night sipping wine and falling asleep to romance movies.

* * *

The cuckoo clock in the bathroom at Sally’s house is ticking as I stand in front of the mirror in my birthday dress. Plastic smile. Tired eyes. Plastic smile. Tired eyes. My hands dig into her drawer, flailing around. Desperate for something. Make me beautiful again. The wrinkles at the corners of my eyes rip me to shreds. I want to shoot needles into my forehead, smooth a thing or two over, fracture the mirror. My hair is getting thin; if I tore it out by the fistful, I’d come out empty handed. My breathing is shallow. 40. No partner, no kids. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. My heart beats. How many more years do I have left? How many seconds?

A phone call. I feel inclined to not answer, but pick up anyway. It’s another generic birthday greeting from another generic friend. I project a fleeting mirage of happiness into the speaker. I peel the covers off my sticky body. I feel shrink-wrapped like a piece of fruit. I have a sudden craving for a vanilla cupcake. I stare off at the wilted marigolds sitting on the windowsill of Sally's bathroom.

That’s when I decide: 50. That’s how far I’ll make it. No partner, no kids, no legacy, 50. Nobody brought me flowers today. So who is going to lay the wreath atop my casket?