26

     I handed my license to the weathered yet cordial cashier in quiet anticipation of her response. “Oh wow, Happy Birthday! All the way from Maine, huh?”

     “Yup,” I rehearsed. “Just passing through.”

     “This for a party or somethin’?” She would surely say.

     My response would be witty, concise, and unapologetic. This was my chance. I was finally becoming the independent woman I had always wanted to be. “Yes, a party of one! I actually decided to book a room across the street and just have a night with my favorite person,” pointing to myself.

     Her eyes would widen, and for a fleeting moment she would reflect on all the times she, too, would have liked to run away and have an evening alone with a bottle of moderately priced champagne.

     “Well alright! Nothing wrong with that I suppose.” Then the credit card reader would honk, the register would clank shut, and in a coddling yet sincere tone she would offer, “You have yourself a nice time, now.”

     Instead, she immediately turned my license over and attempted several unsuccessful scans of the back barcode. She passed it back to me. “It’s not scanning, but don’t worry about it.”

     I would not.

     Downtown Easton, Pennsylvania is wanting for a standard bodega with pints of Ben & Jerry’s Cinnamon Buns. All you’ll find instead is a row of smoke shops on the main drag with sparse selections of candy, soda, and beer. Your best bet is the one on the corner of Northampton and 2nd Street, where there’s a lonely Blue Bunny cooler in the back with strawberry shortcake bars.

     After nestling my new treasures in the hotel ice bucket, I had a silent debate about ordering in or going out. I decided that bringing a book to a restaurant was an appropriate way to usher in a new era of risky sophistication. My server at the surprisingly chic pizza establishment had soft eyes and spoke highly of David Sedaris. He said the espresso was on him because he never saw someone dining alone, and my to-go containers were placed in a thick brown paper bag labeled with calligraphic Sharpie.

     Baths take a longer time to fill than you think.

     I exhaled in the boiling water, pondering everything and nothing.

     “This is so nice.”

     “Did I lock the deadbolt thing on the door?”

     “I should do this more often.”

     “How long am I doing this?”

     “Wow, to think, Oprah does this every day.”

     I thought of all the gay boys who didn’t make it to 26. I poured a little bit of champagne into the water. I cried and laughed. When I felt the stopper unplug, I let the water drain out. And laying in the empty tub, I listened to the chorus of tiny bubbles popping like a round of applause.