Tuesday, November 8

After the After Party

Turning 30 felt major. Turning 31, not so. I think that 31-39 is like the growth-gap years, the gray area, the space-time continuum fold. A limbo. The long lunch hour before we go back to work in our forties. It's getting settled. It's the three turns before the long comfortable sprawl on the grass. It's the denial years. It's the fun years. Plus the constant sideways glances at blinking ATMs.

I turned 31 in bed, watching the first episode of Love Story in Harvard. One of W's surprises. But the Infernal Affairs boxed set shut me up. This guy really knows how to.

The post-birthday birthday party, in front of Sam's eviction, and later the mood-swinging Full House marathon, and much much later, cognac and photo albums and chocolates, on the floor just like the good old days in the university. Like we were waiting for class to begin. Waiting for morning when it's safer to catch a ride home.

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