I thought I wanted John Henry to call me for my birthday...I thought I wanted him to give me some little sign that he knows I'm still alive. (I assumed that he wouldn't.) Surprisingly, when that John Henry kid did in fact call, I wasn't happy about it. I came home from work to find that he'd left a message on my machine ("Hi, this is John, just calling because it's the 4th of July,which means it's Sig's birthday, blah blah"). The kid always acted like my birthday was the biggest burden in the world. He always made a fuss about having to come home for the fourth...and one year he didn't even bother to come home, nor did he call or send me a birthday card or even email me on my birthday. And now that he's no longer obligated to care or even remember, he called. What a fucker. I know he was trying to be nice, but...it didn't work. It pissed me off. And, yes...it made me terribly sad. That's one of his best skills: accidentially upsetting me.

* * *

I sat on the porch step alone tonight...I'm always alone, it seems. Andy had joined me for a few minutes, but because the dog wouldn't shut up he went inside to placate it. The dog stopped barking, and Andy never came back. Oh well. I've grown accustomed to being walked away from and forgotten.

The outdoors was hot, moist and stagnant. A smoky haze from the city's hour-long fireworks display (and all the fireworks my neighbors lit) hung in the air, along with the acrid, charred Fourth of July smell. It didn't seem real...but it was. I've found that even when things don't seem real, can't be real...they are. Sometimes that's a hard thing to swallow.

It was just me, a candle, a wine cooler, and my sparklers. I burned a few - I watched the golden sparks fly onto the pavement, fizzle and die. My sparklers were of the particularly cheap variety, so they didn't last for more than a few seconds. As quickly as they were ignited, they were dead...they sputtered, momentarily glowed orange, and gave off a thin wisp of smoke. They cried in protest as I extingushed them in the bowl of dirty water sitting on the steps. They faded into oblivion, discarded and forgotten. They're rotting in the trash can right now, along with some uneaten rice and a soggy dog biscuit.

While the people in my neighborhood lit fireworks - I could hear them crackling and popping, and occasionally caught a glimpse of that hopeful, exciting fireworks light - I abandoned my sparklers. They just weren't fun to play with alone. Besides - I wanted to light a fire that would last; I wanted to light a fire that I could extinguish at my own discretion. I peeled the label from my wine cooler. It was soggy, but caught fire when I dangled it in the candle flame I was using as a lighter. It quickly sputtered, leaving a trail of smoke curling up to the sky.

So I tried to light a sparkler box, first shaking it to make sure it wasn't one of the full boxes. It, too caught fire. And, mirroring my first attempt to create a blaze, it died. I tried again, this time lighting the other end...but to no avail. The fire burned out, and smoke exited the box at both ends. Attempt number three was a total failture. The box's burned edges glowed red but refused to ignite. As it turns out, the boxes are better quality than the product itslef. In any case, the cliché is a lie: The third time is not a charm. When the fire has burned out at both ends there's nothing left.

Nothing.

* * *

The particularly disgusting thing is that I know I'll call him back.