The kid’s cake is candle free, sadly. And his god damn mom can’t stand. Who drinks at anyone’s 8th birthday party? let alone your own son’s.
Unc—he says—whudja get me?
‘forget. Though it looks like your standard box—is what I say—bigger maybe, must be a suit.
Shoot, you got me clothes… ?
Kid—I hear myself begin, but I stop, I don’t say it’s Hulk in an old Macy’s box. He starts crying. Christ. My sis twists her ankle to get to him, maybe give a pat on the back, say ssh. Christ. I cry—don’t open it.