The curtains are glowing red when my alarm goes off, sunlight trying to force its way through the fabric. Having gotten into bed not 5 hours ago, I sigh wearily, slamming my hand onto the phone to snooze. I feel each of the ten minutes in my half-sleep pass until it vibrates again. My partner grumbles and turns over, reportedly wrenched from a pleasant dream.

Fighting the pain of fatigue in my body, I stand up and tread downstairs.

Jersey donned and kettle boiling, I quietly put the match on the TV. The early Sunday morning is overcast and empty, Jock already having gone to the gym, and the others still blissfully asleep. As I sit on the couch with my mug of English Breakfast, the cat comes to sit on my lap. 

The first half is mostly uneventful, good for my sleepy mind and body. Right before half-time, our team scores a goal. Half-time comes and goes and 2 minutes after the game resumes, they score again. And then again… And then again? Then again and again and again!

Astonishingly, Liverpool demolishes Manchester United with a 7-0 score. I am baffled and thrilled, and in the vacancy of my home, I turn to Twitter to share the excitement with someone–anyone, everyone. I sip my tea and try really hard not to think about the great expanse of couch around me that remains unoccupied. 

♧

The game is over and I’m trapped under the cat, not quite ready to get up and make breakfast. Jock comes home, clad in his own soccer jersey–his usual gym attire. He makes conversation with me about the game, even though it’s not the team he follows. I stagger into the kitchen and the other boys arrive for D&D. Jock gives everyone a tour of his new vehicle, a sparkly new Audi. He tells us in scandalous whispers how much it costs and everyone balks before retreating upstairs to begin the game.

♧

When I head out the door, I’m practically running. I feel so restless, so uncomfortable, like something within the cells of my body is fundamentally out of place. Stress-cleaning the kitchen only kept me occupied for maybe half an hour, so I jump in the car, eager to escape myself.

The wait is agonizing. The chairs are cold and unyielding, and there are several people in line ahead of me. I solve my Rubik’s cube about 5 times before getting bored and giving up. I check my phone, but there are no messages to respond to.

Finally, after about an hour, he calls my name. The hairdresser is a serious, stressed man who moves very quickly and only speaks to ask me about my hair. I focus on sitting up straight and keeping my legs uncrossed. When he’s done, I see a different person looking back from the mirror. She reminds me of early 2017 Joni, but I don’t really recognize her. The wavy hair that barely brushes her shoulders, blonde from root to tip. The look in her eyes–like a cornered animal. The deranged smile affixed to her face… I thank the hairdresser, struggling to do the math in my head to tip him probably too much.

♧

As I walk across the Harmon’s parking lot, the wind chills my neck. I’m not used to the exposure. I pick up a few essential items, but spend the bulk of my time pondering in the baking aisle. I haven’t made a birthday cake since 2021. What flavor does he like? What colors should I get? I need at least 23 candles for this cake. Should I get frosting? I have frosting at home.

♧

When I get back, the air feels sticky, like the group of boys left only moments ago, like I just barely missed them. Still so viscerally uncomfortable, the speaker goes on. J’s Vintage Vibes (Action Ver.) blares in the kitchen, probably too loud for my dear roommates, but I can’t let myself think right now. I try to rock n’ roll so hard that no thoughts or feelings can enter my mind. I mix the cake. My eggs are rotten. I steal some from Nerd. The oven is ready. The cake goes in. Now what?

Oh.

I have to sit. 

And I have to wait.

It takes a full minute to light all 23 candles on the cake. When we’re finished, it looks like a bonfire on a plate. Some of our older friends are here, gathered in my home to celebrate. We share media with one another–my playlists, a classic YouTube video, the Birthday Boy’s first “movie night” movie. I perch on the back of the couch, sipping plum soju. Gamer sits to my left. He’s the funniest person I have ever met, and I can’t help but lean in when he speaks. Nerd engages the Drummer in a discussion about music, and I’m excited to join, our chit-chat fading into the buzz of the gathering.

♧

I struggle to follow the movie, brain muddled by substance, eyes confused by my lack of glasses. When it’s over, the boys play Smash and I begin to melt into the cushion. I feel 17 again. The cacophony of their exclamations is familiar, and this time, not unwanted. Prep asks me every round which character to pick and I read him the name of the first picture my eyes land on, often to his dismay.

When the party ends and everyone leaves, I am someone different. I march emptily up the stairs, cat in tow. Brush my teeth.

The moment I tumble into bed, sleep finally takes me away.