Darlene's was empty when we walked in. The slow hour between lunch and dinner service, when the waitress just leans on the counter and stares out the window.
I set the cupcake on the table. A single candle shaped like an 8. Her age. Eighty-eight.
She looked at me like I'd lost my mind. We don't celebrate birthdays anymore, not since the hips went bad.
I lit the candle anyway and told her I was sorry. For what I said the day I turned seventeen, when she told me I'd never make it as a drywall man and I told her I wished she was dead.
She stared at the flame. Then she said, 'I don't even remember that.' But her hands shook when she picked up the candle.
We let it burn down to nothing in the saucer. I've been carrying that apology for sixty-five years.
She ate the cupcake. Said the buttercream was too sweet, just like me. And in that diner, between lunch and dinner, something let go.