“So…what are you up to today?” He asks.

I really don’t want to answer that. “Uh, I don’t know. It’s sort of my birthday, so…”

“It’s your birthday? Happy birthday, dude!” (yep, he calls me dude), “Why didn't you tell me?”

I shrug, taking a sip of coffee. “I don’t know. I guess I’m not that excited about it this year.” I smooth my bangs against my forehead. “I didn't think this was what twenty-five was supposed to look like.”

“Huh?” he responds.

Unnngghhh. “I just thought I’d, you know, be playing in a band, or working in some hip office with exercise balls instead of chairs. Or I’d be writing copy and sleeping with my weirdly attractive older boss.”

“Exercise balls?”

“I also thought I’d be taller, and wear more professional outfits, like pencil skirts with button-ups.”

“What’s stopping you?” he asks, his mouth wadded with eggs.

“I can’t wear my nice shit to work- it’ll get covered in ketchup, and my tears. I just thought I’d have started a real career, and have a lot of friends. I’m a fucking server, and I’m not even sure if I have friends; I just know a lot of people that’ll drink with me.”

“You have friends, c’mon.”

I feel my next sentence bubbling out of me, like a river of acid rain: “I thought I’d be in a serious relationship by now.”

Todd suddenly looks like he’s really got to be at the dentist right about now, but thanks for a lovely breakfast.

“Not with you, dingus,” I say. “I mean, sleeping with you is swell, but-”

“Yeah, don’t worry, I get it. I mean, I always thought I’d end up with my high school girlfriend.”

The few times he has shed personal details, they always strike me like a tether ball, and I’m the kid on the playground with bad eyesight.

“Yeah? Why aren't you?” I ask.

“I don’t know, it didn't work out. We just broke up before I moved to Portland. She’s back in Indiana, with some other guy.”

Todd’s face sags into his omelet and suddenly I feel something I've never felt for him before- pity. I've felt just about every inch of him maybe 100 times- but this is the first time I've felt this.

“Anyway, I’d be your boyfriend, June.”

He scarfs down his last few bites, and I picture us at my parents’ house, having dinner, him saying something about Asians and the look on my mom’s face.

“Yeah, but that’s not really what you want.” Or what I want. “You couldn't handle me. You don’t even like crossword puzzles. What would we do together in bed on Sunday mornings, when I’m wearing glasses and some sort of silk robe?”

“You have a silk robe?”

I shake my head. “No, it's just a fantasy." I'm sinking. "Anyway, it’s sweet of you to offer, but we both know it wouldn't work. You just feel bad for me because…you know…” I can’t look at him, so I look out the window. Some small part of me suddenly wants to cry, but I push that feeling into a dark corner. “Birthday shit.”

He smiles at me. “Sure.”

We don’t say anything for what feels like a day, while I push my eggs around my plate with my fork. Then he asks, “Can I see your silk robe sometime?”