Read half a novel while wearing a ridiculously soft robe.
It was the nicest birthday I’d had in years.
I returned home relaxed.
Desmond studied me for several seconds.
“Did you change your hair?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
Then he asked what we were having for dinner.
I cooked.
But something was different.
Until then, I had treated every forgotten birthday as a separate disappointment.
That year, I finally saw the larger truth.
Desmond wasn’t bad at birthdays.
He was actually excellent at birthdays.
As long as they belonged to him.
So I stopped helping him maintain the double standard.
His birthday arrived a few months later.
That morning, Desmond stayed in bed longer than usual.
Normally I would have walked in carrying coffee, eggs, toast, and a small present.
Instead, I went downstairs and poured myself cereal.
Eventually, he appeared in the kitchen wearing sweatpants.
He looked at the dining table.
Then the stove.
Then me.
“Where’s breakfast?”
“There should be food in the refrigerator.”
He frowned.
“I mean my birthday breakfast.”
I took another spoonful of cereal.
“What about it?”
His expression changed.
“It’s my birthday.”
I gave him the same mildly confused look he had given me so many times.
“Oh.”
He waited.
I drank my coffee.
Then I said,
“I thought we were too old to make a fuss about birthdays. Aren’t birthdays for children?”
He stared at me as though his brain needed a moment to restart.
“What?”
“Those are your words.”
“I know I’ve said that, but—”
“Great. So we agree.”
“No. We don’t agree.”
I picked up my purse.
“Have a nice Wednesday.”
He followed me toward the door.
“You didn’t buy me anything?”
I smiled.
“Wouldn’t presents be childish?”
I left for work.
Apparently, Desmond spent most of the day convincing himself I was bluffing.
Around lunchtime, he texted asking when I would be home.
Later, he asked whether he needed to wear something nice.
That told me he expected a dinner reservation.
When I arrived home around five-thirty carrying nothing except my work bag, he kept looking toward the driveway.
At six, he checked his phone repeatedly.
A little later, he asked casually,
“Do we need to leave soon?”
“Leave for what?”
He studied my face.
“Never mind.”
At six-thirty, Lorna called.
Her voice was loud enough that I could hear her from across the kitchen.
“What time should we come over?”
Desmond stared at me.
I continued chopping vegetables.
He covered the phone.
“What should I tell her?”
“The truth.”
“What truth?”
“That there isn’t a party.”
His eyes widened.
I held out my hand.
To my surprise, he gave me the phone.
“Hi, Lorna.”
“Where are we going tonight?” she asked. “Desmond refuses to tell me anything.”
“We aren’t going anywhere.”
Silence.
“What do you mean?”
