Don't Call it Love When You're Talking To Me

It was well into the "shank" of the evening (if you will).  People were slowly drifting away, or breaking away.

This went for the guest of honor as well.  The cool nighttime ocean breeze was wafting through, and with fewer guests, the fire seemed like a good enough place for some private conversation.

How do you feel about 42?
42 what?
Well, you know, years.
It depends.  How do you feel?
I feel betrayed!
Oh, really?
Well, you know, they say, whoever they are, that life begins at 40.  And I spent the last 2 years realizing they've been lying through their teeth.
You know, I think the last 2 years have been rather good.
That's because you're 38.
Keep your voice down.
Oh!

Some guests came by to say goodnight, and in a way it was perfect timing.  Up to get more wine, desperate to keep the party going...even in this slower state, if that meant reality wouldn't arrive just yet.  Not today, at least.

How do you feel, Birthday Boy?
I feel invalided.
You mean invalid?
I'm...well, that too, but basically invalided.  Like an invalid.
Well, remember what they say, George.  After 40, it's all 'patch, patch, patch.'


Ugh.  I'm going home.