They called some boys June Bugs, and all the grandfathers were Pappies. Pappies made me think of milk, the way it leaks and then weans the babies with their cherub cheeks and red runny noses. I held that baby—I don’t even remember whose newborn baby—so long they all began to comment on me. “Baby hog,” one said. “Clucky,” said another. I was always lonely, always wishing for someone. That’s why I made love to a June Bug in the car by the railroad tracks, why we didn’t use a condom. But I never got his baby. I wonder how life might’ve changed.

This may be the last thing I do, for now. Time to think about what’s next, how this all might end. Think on the last twenty years of life—what did I do? Raise two kids, get two advanced degrees, but fail to realize my dreams. How corny. My birthday is coming and like usual, I haven’t any real big plans. Any meaningful plans. The white carnations—funereal flowers—on the table are turning brown. I could toss them into the trash. That’s something to do. Maybe bake a quiche; listen for the timer. Let it buzz, hurt my ears.