Nobody at the party I went to last weekend knew I had cancer. Not the deceptively attractive host, who's equally attractive girlfriend was out for the night with her, I'm assuming, equally attractive girlfriends. Not his friend, who was in town visiting from down under. Whose hip tattoos dripped from beneath the sleeves of his perfectly taut t-shirt. And not their friend, who asked me ever so cautiously whether I had a boyfriend. Yes. I smiled, flattered. I did.
But it's not surprising that nobody knew. What's surprising is that I didn't have the urge to tell them. That night, for the first time in a long time, I was just a girl, out with her girlfriends, hoping she looked good enough to get hit on.