Condensation coats the solo cup, slicking my palm as it forms a ring slowly saturating the tabletop. I tap my fingers against the plastic, the faint sound swallowed up by tinny jazz music.
Gene Harker brought his record player, claiming it is better than any modern system.
The scratch of the record makes me ache for a proper drink, though there is not a drop of anything fresh to be found.
One of my former classmates, Janet, toddles over to sit across from me. I fancied her decades ago, though now her body, like everyone's, sags like a melting candle.
She sips from her cup, attempts to make casual conversation.
All anyone wants to talk about is my skincare routine, "you don't look a day over thirty," she crows! What a bother. She reaches out to touch my hand, recoiling at the temperature.
I blame it on the glass of soda slowly condensing to vapor between my palms. Another moment of stilted conversation finally drives her off to reminisce with someone else.
Even for an immortal, the evening drags on as if time were frozen. All I can do is pray there won't be a seventy-fifth class reunion.
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