What the Chrome Kept

Gary got a plaque and a handshake

and we all ate from paper plates

in the conference room with the blinds half-closed

and someone brought a sheet cake.

I was getting coffee when I saw myself

in the side of the urn—

the whole room bent inside it,

my face stretched wide and low,

mouth pulled out toward the edges

like a face seen through bad glass.

I stood there.

The coffee going cold in my cup.

The face in the chrome looked older than I feel,

or maybe more accurate—

the kind of tired that doesn't show up

in the bathroom mirror because you've learned

to stand at the right angle in the right light

and give yourself the version you can use.

Gary was laughing at something across the room.

Thirty-one years.

He looked genuinely happy about it,

which I found almost unbearable.

I looked at the face in the urn a little longer.

Then I went back to the cake.