Room 318, Thursday Morning
Happy birthday, the email opened.
Peter squinted at it.
Happy birthday, he read again.
Happy birthday.
Was it? His birthday? Happy-- well, anxious and on top of the world and plummeting down to the depths of the earth on a daily basis, yes. Happy, probably not. But it was apparently his birthday, and his parents had pointed him to that fact without sending him a gaudy e-card or an offer of hosting a party for him with lemonade and soda.
His parents were the only people he got a happy birthday from that day. But it still threw him for a loop.
Happy birthday, he read for the fourth time, pushed his chair away from the desk, and muttered, "Oversentimentalized blather."
[[ open! ]]
Peter squinted at it.
Happy birthday, he read again.
Happy birthday.
Was it? His birthday? Happy-- well, anxious and on top of the world and plummeting down to the depths of the earth on a daily basis, yes. Happy, probably not. But it was apparently his birthday, and his parents had pointed him to that fact without sending him a gaudy e-card or an offer of hosting a party for him with lemonade and soda.
His parents were the only people he got a happy birthday from that day. But it still threw him for a loop.
Happy birthday, he read for the fourth time, pushed his chair away from the desk, and muttered, "Oversentimentalized blather."
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