So I stand holding my drink and trying to look as though I might join in at any moment. Even if something comes to mind I seem to lack the energy, or the will, to put it into words. But invariably, after a few mildly promising exchanges, I find myself with nothing to say. I rejoin the party and do my best to engage with people. They're a bit reptilian at the corners, and fuzzy around the iris, but otherwise the same blue/green orbs that first opened upon this world in the dawn hours of August 15, 1951. a lingering reaction to the hairline situation, which gets me every time.
Liver spots romp across my brow, which now (holy shit!) seems to extend almost halfway up my skull before meeting a low crest of hair, so bent and tortured it's like something clinging to an Icelandic hillside. Rising defiantly among the parched, twisting creek beds, my nose is an enduring mountain range, mottled and scarred by time and sun-cancer excisions.
In the cold LED light, the skin around my eyes and cheeks could be a satellite image of Queensland's Channel Country in drought. Completely sober, despite hours of drinking, I stare into the mirror. Later, lurking in the bathroom, it occurs to me that, apart from being the oldest person at the party, I may also be the most childish. Am I afraid of dying? Instinctively, of course.
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