Sarah Van Arsdale

It was Chris’ birthday we were crowded around the table in the new apartment— the one we didn’t like, and didn’t keep for long— the dining room so small we could barely fit six but that night we were happy even though it was 2017, hardly the happiest year in the history of our country. It was Chris’ birthday and everyone had arrived a little late because the A train was running slow, and it was snowing. I’d roasted a chicken and some of us were drinking wine. We’d talked about birthdays and how quickly it all slips past just like our parents warned us. I was wearing a plaid shirt and my triple strand of pearls that I’d bought at a vintage shop on Broadway and that fooled no one.

I’d made a coconut cake forgetting coconut wasn’t Chris’ favorite, but no one minded because it was cake and it was Chris’ birthday. In the photo, we’re forever leaning toward one another, arms wrapping shoulders,

the candles guttering down, the table strewn with dishes the transparent wine glasses glimmering in what’s left of the low apricot light. This was all so ordinary— exquisitely ordinary—