“When is your birthday?” Ana asks me, after Mick reveals an unexpected expertise in astrology and informs Ana that she’s a Virgo. Alex is an Aquarius—a fact that, like everything else under the sun, violently alarms him. “I don’t have one,” I tell her, still reeling from the mental image of middle-aged, rugged Mick perching rimmed glasses on his nose and settling in bed with a copy of The Zodiac for Dummies. “My mate used to dabble,” he whispers at me, picking up on my befuddlement. Peas sputter out of Ana’s mouth. “How can you not have a birthday?”
This dialogue is jumbled. The order is attempting to be clever but is needlessly confusing
