Ten

It is my birthday. All around me are friends, real and imagined, and family, real and gone. In the middle of the dining table rests a cake and a bowl of half-eaten spaghetti. The candles are weeping wax tears onto melted pink icing, claiming the best part of my birthday cake—an offering to the old woman hovering over my head. The noodles, saturated with sauce, glisten under the light, as if sweating in anticipation of its death by digestion.

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