Happy Birthday

"I'm coming out west for my birthday," he tells me, that beautiful hunk of man I crushed on for a decade. A boy to me, though he's about to be 42. We were intimate friends for years who'd only met a handful of times.  He's tall and broad and tasty.

He's going to Vegas for his birthday and I snigger silently. The boys, they love the gambling and the whores. He's going with the guys. Even though he's married now and has a big-eyed jug eared kid.

He tells me again the next time we mail. "Did I tell you I'm coming out west." Asks me how long it took me to get there when I went to meet up with the gals. "Too long," I reply. It's nearly 300 miles.  I still don't get it. "I guess I won't be seeing you," he finally writes. Oh jeez. Is that what you meant?

What did he mean? I have faith he's a faithful  husband but I let my mind go there for just a second. I haven't thought about his big chocolate-colored muscly frame in years but for an instant I think about sliding under the sheet beside him. He's soft now too but I feel only the weight of my belly sinking toward the center of earth, heavier than the room, and I can't stay in that place.

Turning 60. Hitting 60. Banging hard on 60.  Really just sets it in stone. I've been over the hill for so long I can't even remember what's behind me. My belly, empty of babies, shy of men, full of shit and fear.