At my thirty-second birthday, I looked around at the many friends who had come for my party, and I was able to smile, knowing that this was the last one, that I would never have a birthday again, that I would soon die. The celebrations were tiring; the gifts I left in their paper wrapping. I calculated how long I would have to wait. I wrote a note to myself of the date in March when six months would have elapsed from the last encounter, when I could get my test, my confirmation. And all the while, I acted fine.
