the birthday of champions

birthday dessert of vanilla souffle
You each get a candle along with your dessert and though you know it is probably the only chance you will get for a birthday wish this year, you can't think of a single thing to wish for. For the moment, any anger that lingered at the absence of a few who had been invited has all but disappeared, and the evening is perfect without them anyway. You refuse to meet Remy's gaze as you consider the options, starting at the small flame of the candle and ignoring those around you, urging you to get on with it already. You don't let anyone rush you.

And then you have it. It's obvious the moment you stumble upon something, your smile quirks up, your eyes look a bit mischievous. Someone beside you asks what and you only shake your head, nodding to Remy that you're finally ready. You can't share or it won't come true. And no one would guess this anyway. You blow out your candle and wish.

a birthday toast
First there was the four glasses of wine, and then passed champagne flutes. You've lost track of how much you've had to drink already, but if you're feeling it, it's nothing compared to your mother. For most of the evening she has been playing the role of dutiful hostess, though she has hovered closer to your side as the night has gone on, standing before you and Remy, nursing another drink. It doesn't cross your mind to attempt to slow her down until she is insisting to serenade you with happy birthday, a blush coloring your brother's face beside you. You join in, if only because rebuffing her would only cause more of a scene and you're honestly a little amused that Remy is embarrassed. But she moves to embrace you both as she finishes, murmuring her love to you in long breaths and mixed french. Your mother, the playwright, has always had a way with words even in times of intoxication. All you can do is somewhat awkwardly hug her back, glancing at your brother over her embrace, silently exchanging glances that equate to questions of what to do next and thank her as she continues with declarations of how much she loves her oldest children. You know if your mother was sober she would scoff at the cliche, getting teary eyed, recounting in astonishment that her babies are all grown up, adults who no longer need her. Beautiful adults that she never wants to let go of. Between you and your brother you are able to convince her that she will always be needed before any tears actually begin to flow, and with a more genuine hug and a kiss on the cheek you simply suggest finding dessert and some coffee, the both of you leading her off, handling the precarious emotions and liquored loose tongue of your mother with something of a practiced ease.

late night birthday cake.
"I brought you something," you begin, setting the box down on the kitchen counter. You think you hear a muffled reply from the other room and so you continue to explain, "I knew you wouldn't eat anything at the Plaza. And what's a birthday without cake?"

Of course, it's not quite real cake, since Passover has begun and food is restricted, but unleavened orange cake is as close as you could get to Remy's favorite and all you want is for him to have a good birthday. You know some would be surprised, would expect that something like a birthday would be cause for distain in having to share the spotlight. But it's never been like that, not with the two of you.

"I'm cutting it now," you shout, laughing lightly, "So hurry up already." You move carefully through the kitchen, still in your sequins and heels, feeling a little of the four glasses of wine that were had with dinner, and the many flutes of champagne that followed after. It's the first time in years that you can recall not having a large party (because a benefit on your birthday but not for your birthday doesn't actually count) and yet you are undeniably happy. Any fear that had once settled as a knot in your stomach at the daunting 3 - 0 is completely vanished. As far as you're concerned, it's just another year where new adventures await.