I'll Seize the Day Tomorrow by Jonathan Goldstein

stares back. I’m not sure which fills me with more angst.
    WEDNESDAY.
    I meet Gregor for soup. I show up in my new vest which, I’m informed, makes me look like a children’s entertainer.
    â€œStrike that,” he says. “A children’s entertainer’s monkey.”
    â€œIt’s reversible,” I say meekly, not exactly sure why I’m defending myself. “And vests are practical, what with all the pockets.”
    â€œSo when you strip down to eat a mango, the vest stays on or off? With it on, you have a place to keep your toothpicks and paring knife.”
    â€œWhat are you talking about?”
    â€œDidn’t you once tell me you hate making a mess with mangos, so you eat them naked in your bathtub?”
    â€œNo. No I didn’t.”
    â€œAnd what is this? Your five hundredth vest? Keep going this way and you’ll end up on that TV show about hoarders.”
    â€œWhat are you talking about? This is the first vest I’ve ever owned in my life.”
    â€œIf you can manage to get a little more famous, I can pitch the network on a Hoarders celebrity edition.The first episode could be Bret Michaels swimming waist-deep in bandanas, cross-cut with you trying to decide which of your twenty thousand vests to wear while eating a mango in your bathtub.”
    FRIDAY.
    Tony and I meet for coffee downtown. He’s carrying a bag from Victoria’s Secret, a present for his fiancée.
    â€œWhen you work in a lingerie store,” he says, “you’re inevitably seen as being beautiful enough to work in a lingerie store, or not beautiful enough.You’re always going to be judged against the dainties.”
    â€œThere’s something about your saying ‘dainties’ that doesn’t sit right.”
    â€œI’d make a good lingerie store worker,” Tony says dreamily. “Sitting on a stool, telling it like it is between bites of my sandwich. ‘That thong really brings out the blue in your eyes.’”
    â€œThe fashion world can really use a man like you,” I say.
    â€œOf which,” Tony says, looking me over with distaste, “what’s up with the vest? You look like Emo Philips.”
    As Tony rips into me, I settle back into my chair and brace myself. Unlike your finer quality vests, the subtle dynamics of old friendships are not reversible.

It Can’t Be That Bad
    (23 weeks)
    MONDAY.
    Tucker calls me at the office.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” he asks.
    â€œWorking,” I say.
    â€œNo, really,” he says.
    In truth, Tucker’s call finds me washing an apple over my wastepaper basket with coffee from my mug.
    I hang up, telling him I have to get back to work, but instead I sit at my desk trying to decide what to order for lunch. I know I should have a salad but I want to have smoked meat. Either way, I should probably stop eating at my desk. My computer keyboard is starting to look like the floor of a bus station washroom. To get the dirt out from between the keys, I turn it upside down and tap it against my desk. In so doing, I inadvertently Google “IMYH.” One of the first results is a Sheryl Crow fansite—IMYH being the acronym for her song “If It Makes You Happy.”
    I take this as a sign to have smoked meat.
    THURSDAY.
    I take Howard out to his favourite steakhouse for a belated birthday dinner.While some men pride themselves on marksmanship, yachtsmanship, or even penmanship, Howard prides himself on steaksmanship—the ability to eat vast quantities of steak. He orders the largest one on the menu and I do the same.
    Everything is so rich and heavy. Even the salad seems soaked in a dressing made of mercury. While waiting for the steak, we chomp away at handfuls of bacon bits like they’re peanuts.
    During the meal I try to match Howard, eating whatever he does. Across the table, he stares at me over a steak bone practically gnawed down to the marrow. His eyes are