September twenty-second, the genesis of end and beginning. Leaves, withering from their beryl, flit with wind's whim, and gold cascades to the skysill for a very premature adieu. Earthly preps for tedious nights and winter; a homage.

No wonder the date is a bittersweet tang. Beauty decays for inception. For something unknowingly idyllic.

That's why, she thinks now. The swan song of her five-year marriage was on Lily's birthday.

And minding Lily, the pip-squeak is consistent in her Mommmy!! greets. Hurtling her short limbs around Nat in a cheapskate lock like she's not seven, but stuck in WWE chimera. Her poor, poor legs can't get a breather.

"Whoa, okay," Natalie staggers back, "hold on—" and back, "Lily—" drawing inspiration from her own toddler days with three things at stake: her ass, her kid, the ice-cream cake you had paid.

Remind her of the eighty bucks, and her hands swathe the box's edges, upheaved. Thinking that, maybe, the little brat (affectionate) will wilt at the elusive distance and horseplay with other four-feet, party-coned-cap peers.

Or she can lean against a cream-coated mortar to save her momentum?

"Li. Ly. Can you get over here, please?"

Her ex-wife's strictly business tone does the trick.

Nothing—not a child's ears, hell, even hers—can fuzz or afford to delay you. You used it plenty in your quarrels. Lily, then, oddly obedient, squeezes her free hand in tow. For emotional support, she supposes.

She squeezes back. For emotional support.

Sugared-skittish kids & parents part like the Red Sea. Spotlights her. It's this position. Here comes the bride, except it had been you ambling the aisle, nursed by the clouds of Zion.

Even now, aging seems aloof to you.

God. Forbid her tears from glimmering under the light. And gash her tongue's stupidity in I do.

Not unless she clears and cleanses her throat first.

She eyes the table's cake-shaped vacancy between the fruit salad and pizza. "You want me to record or sing for the birthday girl?" There. How casual.