Class of '68

"I have breast cancer. I'm fifty-one."

"All the same. Gorgeous."

"One never says, `I had cancer.' One says, `I have cancer.' Like with blue eyes or a birthmark or something. You carry it to the grocery store; you take it with you to the cemetery."

They stood, half facing, at the edge of the dance floor. He tried to hurt her with his eyes.

"Ron?" he said.

"Fine. Rich."

"And two kids. Good for you."

"Not kids anymore," she said, and laughed, then said, "They're over at the hotel. We can pop in afterward."

"No."

"It wouldn't be--"

"Not for me. Thanks."

She shrugged. Dance, then?

"A drink."

"What's that in your hand? Come on, one happy dance."

"Cancer?"

"Eight nodes, three years ago. I've got a chance. You used to adore dancing."

"I used to."

"Do you hate me?"

"It helps."

... // 69% Remaining