The Cake Section

She asked me what I'm doing,

my supervisor holding coffee,

making conversation like it's easy.

What are you doing for your birthday?

The question arrived like a bill

I didn't know I owed,

and I couldn't find the words

to tell her the truth:

my calendar's blank,

my plans are made of nothing,

I'll probably stand in the bakery aisle

under the fluorescent lights

and buy myself a cupcake

like I do every year,

like I'm a person worth celebrating

even though the only one here to celebrate

is me.

Last year I got the pink one.

This year I'll get the pink one again,

or maybe chocolate,

something different to make it feel

like the year was different,

like something changed,

like I'm not just repeating the same ritual

of acknowledging that I'm still alive

by myself

in my apartment

with a paper towel under the frosting

so I don't ruin anything that matters.

She waited for me to answer.

I lied and said I had plans,

said I was busy,

said I'd figure it out,

the way you do when someone asks you

a question that reveals

exactly how alone you are.

In two weeks I'll be in that bakery.

The cakes will be waiting in their plastic cases.

I'll choose one.

I'll pay.

I'll go home.

And next year I'll probably do the same thing,

because this is the tradition now,

this is what my birthday looks like:

a cupcake from the supermarket,

a room with no one else in it,

and the knowledge that I'm the only one

who thought I was worth celebrating.