For the fourth time in as many years, plans to celebrate Jared's birthday are not being cancelled, but rather, deemphasized.

“We can still do something,” his wife says, putting groceries away. “Just not on the day-day. The girls and I get back from the thing on Sunday. We can grill then. Whatever you want. Maybe your dad's chops?”

Jared picks up a bag of peaches. A fat black housefly lands on his arm and rubs its hands together. “You really have to go too?”

“Well, I told you. Ginny's mom got sick.”

The next morning, before he leaves for work, he kisses his daughters goodbye. “And what will there be if I get a bad report?”

“Consequences!” they sing in unison.

On his way out the front door, Jared passes his wife folding clothes in the living room, watching TV news. She doesn't get up.

At work, there’s cake and singing. Everyone signs a card that has an old man in a cape on the front. Jared throws it in the trash can under his desk before he leaves for the day.

He pokes his head into the break room. His boss is rinsing out a mug in the sink. Jared coughs and she turns around. “That's all from me, I think,” he says.

She blinks and smiles at him, all gums. “Hey, someone asked me. What is this for you? How old I mean? The big one, right?”

“Yep,” Jared says. “The big four-oh.”

“Lordy, lordy,” she says, clicking her tongue. “Better make it a good one.”

Jared is almost to Sunset Hills before realizing he missed the exit for home. By then, traffic has thickened because of an accident ahead and he’s boxed in by two semi trucks. A vein in Jared’s temple thuds. He considers his options. He keeps driving.

Out of the city, he passes signs for food. Signs for Jesus. Signs counting miles to Cape Girardeau.

Hey the Cape, Jared thinks.

He had been there in high school. Summer camp for two weeks. Kissed his first girl there. When he goes there in his memory, her breath smells like bug spray.

Jared pulls over at the next gas station. He buys a pack of cigarettes and a plastic lighter. He smokes two in a row and coughs so hard he pukes in his mouth a little.

He keeps driving.

“What're you talking about? Milwaukee is nothing like St. Louis,” the man in the Cardinals hat says. “And I mean, nothing.”

“They're both by some water,” the blonde kid says.

“Some water? Are you a moron? I’m serious.”

“Both beer cities,” Jared says. He is sitting two stools away from them.

"Stay outta this," the man says to him. He turns to the kid and stands up. “Here's what I'm gonna say to you, man. You're gonna find out soon enough, but I'll tell ya right now. We call people on their shit here, okay? You've been warned.”

The kid stands up. Taller than he looks. Taller than the man in the Cardinals hat. Jared braces himself for a confrontation, but then something happens on the TV and the kid sits down and they all go back to watching baseball.

Jared takes a sip of his fourth skunky beer. It sours his dreamy feeling. He has wasted a night when he could have done anything. He is stupid. He should leave after this drink, cut his losses. He will, too. Just one more cigarette.

He’s almost finished smoking when he hears the dirt bike throttle choking in the distance. So loud it sounds almost broken. Loud and getting louder. It pulls into the bar parking lot and stops near the dumpster. The rider dismounts, dressed all in black. Small. Reaching up to pull off a full-face helmet, a belt of white skin opens at her waist.

She waves at him.

She’s wearing black lipstick and finishes her beer before Jared touches his. She goes to the bar and comes back with two shots. She puts one in front of Jared and invites him to a party she is going to later, but warns him all her friends are freaks like her.

“You know, you have to tell me if you're a cop.” She points at his wedding ring, a dull gold band. “That's like, a rule.”

Two days later, Jared is grilling on the deck when his wife brings him the cordless.

“Happy belated,” his mom says. “Missed you on the day. Are you—”

“I'm fine,” Jared closes the grill and turns up the heat. “I'm just—”

“We could talk about it. Even if it's just to remember him a little.”

“Mom,” Jared says. Somewhere in the neighborhood, a dinosaur roars. Or maybe it’s a lawnmower. “I'm good, really. I—I know what I'm doing.”

“Well. Okay if you don't. That's what I'm saying.”

“Mom—”

“Because, you know, you're—”

“Mom—”

“As old as he was. I mean—”

“Mom,” he says, closing his eyes. He knows he should say something, but he can’t assemble the order of the words. They tangle and warp and slam against the insides of his skull. They shake and vibrate. They catch on fire. Jared can smell it. He opens his eyes. Smoke is coming from under the grill hood. "Fuck," he says, hanging up the cordless.

The peaches are engulfed. The pork chops are charred. Jared turns off the gas and confirms it. Everything is ruined.

"Fuck," he says again.

He takes the burnt meat and fruit and chucks them into the yard with the spatula, flinging them as far as he can. He sits down on a deck chair and crosses his legs. He touches his calf, the smooth spot rubbed hairless by dress socks. A burning smell hangs in the air. Little piles smolder in the ryegrass. His wife opens the sliding glass door. Jared thinks of her black mouth, the cigarettes, the bug spray, the world of women waiting to eat him.