I awoke on the couch, shortly after the sun began apprehensively bathing the apartment in its milky white light. The clock above me, surrounded by sixteen photographs of friends and good times, ticked just below the threshold of normal hearing as I tip-toed around Rachel, sleeping in the center of the room. My birthday cake sat half-eaten on the kitchen counter alongside an unopened bottle of wine. I observed my age, candles in the shape of a two and a nine, drying in the dish rack. Mmmm, why does everything always taste so much better the next day?