Seeing only a quick glimpse of the unusually pronounced roundness of her eyes, it was impossible to tell if she was excited or terrified or both. Having checked Facebook this morning before she was probably even awake, I didn’t remember seeing that today was her birthday. Now, birthdays have become synonymous with phone numbers in terms of importance. They are often overlooked and are no longer remembered; simply stored like college books you forgot to sell when they might still have been relevant. Out of her line of sight and tucked deep into my crooked cubicle, I checked Facebook again and her name was nowhere to be seen in the Events section. I told myself I would have remembered anyway and she definitely would have mentioned that it was upcoming. She was still “In a relationship and it’s complicated”.

No, the expression that she possessed was much more intense than one would wear if having just received flowers or earrings. It came on suddenly like the flash of a camera that is right in your eyes when someone sneaks up on you to take your picture at someone else’s party. Almost as if her entire life changed in that instance. I’m now realizing after a few minutes have passed that I might have been the only person on this floor that saw her expression. Of the ten or so people here, I might have been one of two or three that even saw her at all. I’d spend the rest of the morning trying to figure out what those eyes had said in those soundless few seconds.

I could talk to Julie and she could talk to me without either one of us ever feeling awkward or bored. Even if we tiptoed into either one of those frames of mind, we were too polite to each other to ever let on. We had what might be considered a relationship by modern standards. “Relationship” being defined as follows:

Relationship n. 1. still wanting to see each other when the morning wore off. 2. too self-conscience and busy to bang someone else

When we were together in public (staged like we just bumped into each other, of course), she spoke often of where she grew up. I suppose tales from your hometown are always a universal way to learn about someone but she seemed to want to be defined by them. As if Spindale, NC were a girl scout badge that she wore her whole life and unwittingly put a great deal of effort into its acquisition. She said one time in passing something that has always stuck with me:

“There’s a freedom in being poor.”

“I grew up poor and it felt like a prison,” I whipped back hastily if not somewhat drunkenly.

“But when you have everything you need, you stop taking risks. You stop pushing forward. You become a prisoner of your own comfort.” she replied.

She made an excellent point but I also bought the drinks that night so in my head we were even. The topic of conversion trailed into something else and we haven’t yet revisited this dialogue.

Refocusing my efforts, I imagined every possible scenario that led up to her expression. It ran the gamut from a death in the family, to being fired, to getting a raise, to her loosing her wallet. All of these explanations seemed too mundane and didn’t fit the frame of her face. My courage finally came to visit after an hour or two and when the morning settled into itself, I causally but deliberately found my way to her desk without allowing the gossip hounds to pick up on my scent. As far as anyone in the office was concerned, our days together started and ended there and I very much wished it would remain that way. Especially after the great outing of Bill and Cory in the copy room. I knew it smelled funny in there but I could never determine why.

Her hands were trembling but still I couldn’t tell if it was out of joy or fear. She must have been waiting for me to come over to her because she had pre-written on a post-it note in hand-writting that only vaguely appeared to be hers:

Lunch Meeting - 12:30pm

Sideways Cafe

The only thing that became obvious that morning was that this lunch meeting was intended for her and I and no one else. The way she nudged the note in my direction as I asked her about something to which I already had the answer made this abundantly clear.

Now, not only would I be starving by the time lunch rolled around (I usually eat at 11:30am because I get up early), I still had no earthly idea what was on her mind.

Oh shit.

Was she pregnant? No way. No fucking way!

Before I could think of anything else, my mind flashed to scenes from Maury where two wild-eyed, bickering lunatics - who just happen to be sitting in chairs that are inexplicably easy to throw - find out the results of a paternity test from a doctor whom I wouldn’t trust to pour milk in my cereal. The physics involved in these two beings even having sex in the first place would confound Stephen Hawkins. Oh, there’s crying. There’s screaming. There’s gloating. There’s usually a cousin involved. Jesus. No.

“Breathe. Remain calm. You don’t know anything yet and you’re letting your mind get the best of you. Count to ten.”, I told myself.

So I did. I counted to ten roughly a million times by my estimation and walked swiftly to my car at 12:15pm on the dot.

Of course I made it to the restaurant first. I always got there first and in doing so started the lunch off with a feeling of confidence at being so prompt. Not today though. Today I instantly thought she wasn’t going to come at all. She was going to bail on our lunch as a form of punishment for something I didn’t even know I had done. If I had done anything at all.

She arrived at 12:32pm with a manila envelope. She sat quietly across from me, opened the envelope and pulled out a single page from a newspaper. She slid it in front of me.

What the hell did this mean?

Without saying a word, I began to scan the page. Today’s date was on the top in the center. In the top left hand corner there was the poor-man’s TV Guide for those people that live under a rock and need to know what time Jeopardy is on even though it comes on at the same god damn time every night. Next to this useless bit of information, there was a two or three paragraph piece on an upcoming art exhibit at one of the local galleries. Below that were the lottery numbers from last night. Next to that was a recipe for some exotic and terrible sounding muffins. Who tries a recipe from a newspaper?

It didn’t make any sense.

I read the entire page again to look specifically for either her name or my name like some sort of half-assed human Google search. I was just looking for something! Some clue as to what the hell this newspaper page meant.

As I was reading frantically with an overwhelming and yet totally unjustified sense of guilt, from her purse, she pulled out a lottery ticket.

My hands began to shake like hers had earlier and I knew I had just a few minutes to decide the entirety of the rest of my life with Julie.