At the pick-up dock of the Sears tonight, I wait patiently for my new air conditioning unit. I fear the heat of summer, and I will use it as insurance against the occasional sweltering New York summer day. Others are there too: the group of five frat boys laughing and joking with one another, the tired Hispanic man with his tan work boots, the polite Asian family with the little baby, the old lady tap tap tapping absentmindedly with her cane. They wait patiently for their dehumidifiers, their stoves, their televisions. Five minutes the store promises. Five minutes.

Soon, the delivery guy emerges, rolling a Sony tv on a cart. The Asian family gets up and waves him over. He heads towards them and disappears back into the store after depositing the large box into their car.

A few minutes passes.

Soon he reemerges, this time with another large box: it is an air conditioning unit, but not mine. As he passes me, he hands me a smaller box. I look at it. "What's this for?" I ask. He looks at me and nods as he walks off towards another family, their eyes excited as though receiving a gift from Santa.

I look at the box. It is a very nice 2.4GHz Uniden cordless phone system. "What do I do with this?" I ask the audience. They look at me, amused at my unexpected delivery.

"He gave it to you. It's yours," says one of the frat boys.

"It's nice," says the Hispanic man, peering at the box.

"I'll give you ten bucks for it," says another frat boy.

"I'll give you forty," says another, this one much cuter. He smiles.

The delivery guy comes back and doesn't even look at me waving the box around.

The cute frat boy laughs. "Take it," he says, nodding at me. "It's yours."

The delivery guy returns with my air conditioner and motions me to the car. I look at him, puzzled, and he ignores my questioning stare, placing the air conditioner in the trunk.

As we pull out of the parking lot, I look at the small group. The cute frat boy smiles and waves at me. I wave my new phone at him and smile back.

I wonder if they're still all there right now, waiting for their dehumidifiers, their stoves, their televisions, and yes, their free cordless phones.

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Cupcakes. My favourite cupcakes.

Dammit, they still managed to surprise me.

"We need to call a quick meeting at five to discuss the e-mail you just sent out," they said. "On mitigating operational risk?"

How could I have not seen it coming?

"The Wilmington guys will be on the call too."

I must have been too distracted to remember. Too exhausted to notice Alex giggling in the corner. Too busy to notice the covert operations around me as I ran flustered into the conference room.

"Okay, let's get this meeting started," I said. "We'll just go through the points here. Wilmington, you on?"

That's when there was a knock on the door. That's when the rest of them came in, Buttercup cupcakes in hand, milk and all. That's when they started singing. And that's when I looked around in surprise, utterly speechless as they laughed and laughed and laughed.

Dammit, sometimes my colleagues are so disgustingly endearing.

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I'm taking today off from work. You know, just in case the guys are planning something. They've been threatening for weeks, they have. Cupcakes from my favourite bakery, drinks after work, perhaps a good ol' roasting at the office. And I've been threatening them back: I want nothing of it.

I'm just not good at it somehow. I spend this time every year trying to fly just below the radar, trying to make the day pass as quickly and painlessly as I possibly can, trying to make everyone forget it's my birthday. Birthdays aren't my thing. Well, not mine at least. I love other people's birthdays, I really do, but I hate mine. I spend the day feeling awkward, feeling as though everyone is looking at me like I have some contagious disease, treating me special for something I don't deserve, giving me that extra latitude just because. I'm just not good at being gracious on my birthday somehow.

I'm not one for being at the center of attention.

Well, not today, anyway.

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My third nephew graduated college yesterday. We spent the day in Philly, running back and forth between ceremonies and speeches, trying to avoid the crush of parents and friends and overzealous graduates, everyone screaming goodbyes, exchanging phone numbers and e-mails and promising to stay in touch and taking a thousand pictures with everyone else.

It brought back a flood of memories and goosebumps of nostalgia, going back to my alma mater, and emotions surged high as I sang The Red and the Blue from the top of Franklin Field along with the graduating class. It was a mixed feeling of elated happiness and bittersweet realization that yes, we have all grown up.

Hurrah, hurrah Pennsylvania!
Hurrah for the Red and the Blue!
Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah, hurrah,
Hurrah for the Red and Blue!

Congratulations, Jeff. We're all terribly proud of you.

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The city is quiet today. An overcast grayness sits heavy atop the skyscrapers and pedestrians walk with closed umbrellas, unsure if to open them against the halfhearted drizzle.

I sat on the sofa near the kitchen this morning, watching people cross the street as I slowly sipped my tea. Back and forth they went, back and forth, untroubled and unhurried as only a day like today would allow. I watched the two fountains at 52nd and Park dance merrily along, making concentric circles that moved across the twin rectangular pools. From the safety of the seventeenth floor, beyond the glass-paned walls I watched them dance. Not a sound they made.

Days like today are alone days. Days where you tuck yourself away in some small corner of the world, your favourite book sitting in your lap dog-eared and already consumed a thousand times over. Days like today are days where you light candles and let yourself dance slowly to the strains of a sappy love song welling up from the stereo and into the chilly air. Days where you stay in bed, watching from under the covers the soft rain fall and fall and fall.

Days like today are days when you're content to just be.

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I killed him yesterday.

I killed a raccoon.

It was half past eight in the evening when I killed him, and the last bit of light had just faded from the weekend skies leaving a single wispy cloud like a scar running across the deep blue expanse of nothingness. Soon it would be dark.

I was going fast, maybe seventy-five when I hit him. I tried to avoid him and I swerved violently, but it was too late, too late. I hit him, the little raccoon.

Somewhere along I-91, just on the Vermont-Massachusetts border, his tiny body lies lifeless and cold, his bones crushed beyond repair, his fur scattering in the wind of a thousand cars racing by.

I was thinking about the sun and the sky and the crisp mountain air when I saw him run out. He was just trying to cross the road, the little raccoon, going to wherever it is that little raccoons go on Sunday evenings. The narrow beams of the headlights illuminated the hard, gray asphalt and his eyes glowed like two giant silver coins as he ran out.

I thought, What beautiful eyes you have.

His feet scurried along in the typical fashion that raccoons scurry along, and he didn't even pause as he ran out in front of me. It was as though he didn't even look twice before crossing the road. Didn't his mother ever teach him to look twice? He scurried and he scurried, and he didn't even pause. He just looked at me as he ran.

I don't think he even braced for the hit.

I swerved to avoid him, I swear I did, but it was too late. I hit him twice, once with the front wheel, once with the back. I hit him pretty hard, I was going so fast, and I knew I knew I knew I had just killed him.

I swerved but I killed the raccoon.

Poor little raccoon, I felt his body as I hit him, the first dull thud of impact and then the sickening, nauseating crunch of his skull and arms and legs and bushy little raccoon tail. The car rose and fell twice as I ran over him, nothing but a tiny blip on my journey home, everything for little Albert.

I named him Albert after I hit him. Albert the raccoon.

It happened so fast for me, I bet it happened even faster for Albert. I bet it happened so fast he didn't even know what hit him. I know what hit him. I hit him. I hit Albert so hard and so fast and so thoroughly killed him, I bet he didn't even know he was dead.

It happened so fast I didn't even hear him scream.

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I see him today at the doctor's office, sitting in the waiting area and whispering rapid Spanish softly into his cellphone as he waits his turn. His tan jacket hangs open, revealing a tight, well-worn white teeshirt that stretches across his broad shoulders and chest. I pretend to not notice.

The husky staccato voice has a slight lisp to it, and he rubs his hand over his freshly shaven head. He looks at me as I sit down, and I try to flip through the Better Homes and Gardens as nonchalantly as I can, acutely aware though I am of his intent gaze, feeling all hot and flustered.

I look up. For a split second we make eye contact, and I struggle to tear myself away from his beautiful brown eyes as he smiles and mouths a hello. I blush and pretend to read an article on painting rooms in bold hues. Plan for as bold a colour as you can muster. Then up it twenty percent. I look away.

Soon enough, the doctor calls me in. How are you doing today, Patrick? How's everything? How's this, how's that? Good to hear, thank you. Good with me, too, thanks for asking. See you in a few weeks, bye.

I walk back to the waiting area and chat with the receptionist for a while. She smiles and laughs with me. Christina likes me, I can tell. We always have a little laugh when I'm there. I like her too.

I walk to the elevator and press the up button.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the shaved-head guy, the one with the deep lispy voice and tight white undershirt and broad shoulders and beautiful, beautiful brown eyes. He gets up from his chair and walks to the elevator.

Could he possibly be smiling at me?

His eyes are dancing.

"Are you a patient of Michael's?" he asks.

I nod. "Yep."

"What's your name?" He extends his hand and leans closer to me.

"I'm Patrick," I say. I press my hand into the fleshy palm of his rugged hand, and he grasps it firmly, staring me in the eye and smiling.

Suddenly I am bright red again, and I look down to where my hand sits enveloped in his. My hand looks so small, I think, compared to his. He is still holding me.

"Here." He offers me a tiny piece of paper.

"What's this?"

"It's my phone number." I look down and see a name and number scrawled delicately, blue ink on white paper. "I'm Ernesto. Nice to meet you, Patrick."

My name rolls off his lips like warm sunshine on a chilly spring day and I feel my knees become weak.

"Well, unless you don't want it, of course." He laughs. "My number, I mean." He knows I want it. Of course I want it. Who wouldn't want Ernesto's number? "Call me," he says.

The elevator doors open and I step inside, Ernesto's offering tucked safely into my hand. He gives me a coy look and walks back to the waiting room.

Just before the doors close, I look up again and see him turning around to smile at me one last time. He cocks his hand to his ear as though on the phone. Call me, he mouths. Call me.

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Sometimes I wish I were alone.

Sometimes I wish I were alone so I could feel the thrill of meeting someone new. Someone new like you. Or you or you. I wish I could feel the thrill of anticipating a first date, knowing it'd be the first time we lay eyes on each other, knowing I'd have to dress a little extra special, knowing I'd have to check in the mirror one more time that everything is just right.

Sometimes I wish I were alone so I could feel the butterflies dancing. I wish I could feel the butterflies dance-dance-dancing in my stomach as I meet you for the first time over coffee. I'd try to calm them down, these nervous butterflies, but oh how they'd dance. They'd dance and they'd dance and they'd dance their frenzied tango as I sip my latte and made polite conversation.

Sometimes I wish I were alone so I could walk on eggshells. I wish I could feel the awkwardness of not knowing if you liked me and the clumsiness of my insecurity as we toyed with each other's emotions. I'd take a small sip of my coffee and laugh and try hard to make you like me because I am insecure about everything.

Oh how sometimes I wish I were alone.

Sometimes I wish I were alone so I could feel excited. I wish I could feel the dizziness of a rendezvous, the exhilaration of touching you for the first time, the shivers that would run down my spine when you touch the back of my neck and I the wispy trail of hair that runs down the middle of your chest, down your belly, down the tender nether region just beyond your bellybutton.

Sometimes I wish I were alone so I could send you away. I wish I could say thank you but no thank you I have to go now you have to go now we can't be together today so goodbye. I need my space too. I need my space and I can't take care of you today because I am selfish and unfeeling. It's all about me.

Sometimes I wish I were alone so I could be reckless. I wish I could feel angry with you and discard you and try someone new. Like a pair of old shoes. One this week, one the next. I'd feel angst and regret and loneliness and despair and sadness. I'd be afraid of growing old with nothing and no one around me. I'd feel the need to cling because I am human.

I'd feel scared. Sometimes.

Yet sometimes I still wish I were alone.

Sometimes I wish I were alone so I could appreciate what I have right here right now.

It doesn't happen much, thankfully, this wishing of mine. And not that I'd do anything, y'know.

I'm just sayin'.

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