out of service

I tell the girls the dress code for Wednesday drinks is Vogue funeral, as a final farewell to my lost youth. We drink glasses of these beautiful cocktails — balanced, refined, storied — then finish with a nightcap of cup noodles by the curb. I turn 35 taking a video of the girls singing a spirited rendition of happy birthday, disposable chopsticks waving high in the air. 

*

At lunch the next day, our server is trying desperately to fix the restaurant’s polaroid camera so she can issue us a birthday memento. We are only here because I mixed up my restaurants and told pb to book this place, when really, I was thinking of the restaurant opposite. By the time the camera is fixed, the candle has been blown out. Two forkfuls of cake have been had. Still, we take the photo because the server has tried so hard.

When we return from lunch, I pin the photo to my board. It now sits next to a scrap piece of paper scribbled with the words Nostos Algos for when I learned it. Nostos — Greek for return. Algos, pain. Together, the root of nostalgia: unabated suffering for unattainable desire. Together, the good among the pain of life.

*

I buy a coat the day after, mainly because I like how I feel when I put it on. I say to pb, this makes me feel like a rockstar, which really means, this makes me happy, even if it is a bit ridiculous.

I think it’s a pretty good motto to live by.