Nineteen, yeah. Just feels… weird. My coworkers, they’re all about the weekends, you know? Loud music, cheap beer, chasing whatever’s got a pulse, or pretending to. And I sort of, I guess, just don’t get it. Or maybe I do and I just… can’t. Like, they’ll ask, “Yo, Jensen, what’s the big plan for Saturday night, man? Gonna hit up McGinty’s?” And I just sort of mumble something about “got some stuff to do,” or “early start Sunday.” It’s easier than trying to explain. Because what I’m actually doing is… going to the community center. To play bridge. With retirees. Yeah, you heard me. Mrs. Henderson, God bless her, probably could run a small country with how sharp she is. Mr. Davies, he's got this twitch he does with his left eye when he's bluffing a no-trump bid. It’s quiet, you know? Strategic. Like… not having to yell over anything. Just the soft slap of the cards, the rustle of the scorepad. No one’s screaming about the damn game or asking me if I’m having fun, like that’s some kind of order. Last Saturday, one of the guys, Tony, he saw me coming out of the center. My bad, I guess, for cutting through that particular parking lot. He just sort of squinted, like he couldn't quite place me in that context. “Jensen? What are you… visiting your grandma?” He laughed, real loud. And I just said, “Something like that, Tony,” and kept walking. It felt… nothing. Not embarrassed, not angry. Just… flat. Like it didn't even register. Which is maybe the problem. I remember this one time, during basic, drill sergeant was screaming at us about… I don’t even remember what. Just static. And I just stared straight ahead, watching a fly crawl up the wall. Focused on that fly. Knew it was important, whatever he was saying, but it just… wasn't landing. This bridge thing, it’s not the same, not exactly. But the quiet. The predictability. The way the rules are set and you just… play. It’s a comfort, I guess. A different kind of discipline. My folks, they wouldn’t get it. My dad, he’d probably say I need to “loosen up,” “live a little.” And my mom… she’d just worry. She worries about everything. Why can’t I just be like the others? Why can’t I just want what they want? I don’t know. I see them, my coworkers, at the parties, all bright colors and loud jokes, and it just looks… exhausting. Like another kind of battle. And I’ve had enough of those, you know? For now. Or maybe forever. Who knows. So I bid three no-trump. Hoping Mrs. Henderson has that queen of hearts. And I guess that’s my weekend. And the next. And probably the one after that. Until something changes. Or it doesn't. Whatever.