Frank's retirement party was in the break room, same as always. Streamers from the dollar store, a sheet cake from Kroger, his name misspelled in blue icing.
Everyone told stories about who Frank had been. Twenty-seven years of forklift certificates and practical jokes. He smiled at all of them like he was hearing about a stranger.
I stood by the coffee pot with a wristband still on my wrist from a concert in 2019. I keep forgetting to cut it off. Or maybe I don't want to.
That night I worked the shift alone. Ate my lunch at 3 AM sitting on the loading dock, feet swinging above the gravel like a kid on a dock.
No one saw me eat a cold sandwich and stare at the parking lot lights. No one saw me smile for no reason.
I used to think I needed an audience to be real. Now I think the opposite. The person I am at 3 AM with a cold sandwich and no one watching might be the most honest version I've ever been.
Frank shook my hand on his way out and said he envied me my years ahead. I didn't know what to say, because I'm not sure I want the years. I want the 3 AMS.