“Do you remember how it ends?” said Muse after a thoughtful pause.
I gave her a quizzical look, half-hoping she would catch it.
“What?” I asked. “How does what end?”
“I’m doing it again, aren’t I?” she replied, scrunching her nose. “Old habit?”
“Could be a new habit if you keep asking these questions.”
We were enjoying our evening stroll, admiring the winter sky, trying to determine what exactly made stars so appealing. That’s the best part about winter walks. Too cold for the clouds, perfect for everything else. You’d think walking in the morning would be much wiser, a whole lot warmer, but that’s not the case. There’s just something about closing your day outside, in the sinister yet inviting night, completely removed from everyone else simply because you can’t see them. The ostriches are right.
“So you were asking about something,” I reminded her. “What was it?”
“The story,” she said without hesitation. “Our story. You know how it ends?”
“Not soon, I hope,” and that was the truth. “I can’t see the future, remember?”
She will sometimes mix the future with the present, which drives me unequivocally batty. By the same token, though, that’s the great thing about Muse: her presence. She’s always there, always was and will be. I’ve felt this every moment, even when I didn’t want to feel it.
It’s an imperative.
“I don’t know how our story ends, I don’t want to know right now, but I will tell you this,” I continued. “Tomorrow’s our second anniversary, and I’m already looking forward to the next one.”
“That’s sweet. Another year?” she asked airily.
“Yes, let’s.”
Two years, more letters than I have fingers to count, every single word shared more willingly than I would with any English paper. Here’s to a third and ten thousand others.
No exciting links for you today, intrepid reader, but I will leave you with a culinary tip. A week or two ago I went to the sandwich store to purchase some cookies. It was around closing time, 9 PM or so, and I needed them as gifts. Turns out Potbelly throws away their bags of oatmeal chocolate chip cookies every evening, in the eternal quest to bake fresh desserts daily.
That meant free cookies for me, possibly for you as well. According to the laws of trickonomics, however, we must be crafty in our quest for biscuits. I mean, what would happen if everyone waited until after hours to descend upon restaurants like heathens and scavengers? A gigantic potluck, that’s what.
Were it not for one of my buddies, one of my Caucasian buddies, I would’ve never known yesterday was Lunar New Year’s Eve. Who on earth could’ve remembered? The ol’ ancestors, I suppose, but my lexicon simply doesn’t have this holiday listed. I’ve flipped through it repeatedly, at least two times, and there’s just a blank spot with chili stains in the Asian section.
Google and the lunar calendar declare this is the Year of the Rooster, which means 365 days of cock jokes until next February, when the Year of the Pony comes to town. I’d ask which animal doubles as your avatar, except I don’t really give a Year of the Crap.
I know, I know–I should cherish my culture, embrace my ethnicity, give myself the annual bear hug. One of these things I did today, yet I’m still afraid of this calendar and its sister publication, the farmer’s almanac. The almanac serves as a preternatural guide for the luckiest days to accomplish worldly tasks, such as getting married or moving a goddamn chair in your living room. Ikea and I are thankful this isn’t the planner du jour for our part of the neighborhood.
My mum celebrated the holiday by discovering a Chinese pastry on her doorstep. I asked her if it was wrapped, and she assured me it was, so I guess we’re off to a roaring good year. As for my part in the festivities, I’ve resolved to improve my bowling score. My highest total on Friday was an 82, damn near double last year’s score, and I believe the Leaning Tower of Pisa tipped over in surrender. Next time I will collect even more points. The day I bowl a 100 or more, that’s the day bin Laden rolls into the Green Zone in the trunk of an Oldsmobile ’72.