It's Michael's birthday and all I can think is that it means something.  Don't you remember?  Sometimes I get the feeling you've forgotten absolutely everything.  Like two hundred miles erased two hundred memories in one fell swoop. 

I know now that I asked a lot of you back then.  Now, a year later, I finally understand.  I know now that for eight hours every day you pretended I was yours.  Now - it's my turn, I guess, to pretend you are mine instead.  It's my turn but it's really - not, because the way things are right now I can't.  I can't pretend you're mine at all because she's here and because she is today you haven't even looked at me.

Not once.

It's Michael's birthday and he's not making as much of a big deal about it as he did last year - all he wants is a card and a cake and it's ridiculous that his relationship with Jan is almost normal and the two of us are barely speaking.  How did that even happen?  It used to be torture to go hours without speaking to you (not just polite ‘hellos' and ‘how you doings' but really talking - like we used to.). Now I'm sure it's been days. 

Weeks...months even.

It's Michael's birthday and he's driving me crazy.  He keeps showing me the tie Jan gave him and hinting about how they're going to celebrate tonight and all I want to do is talk about it with you.

I want to talk to you about so much. 

But I can't because your back is turned.  You don't even glance my way today and it's so weird because all I can remember is what it was like last year.   On this very day last year I sat right next to you in your car, twice.  Once when we drove to the store and once when we went to the skating rink.  I realized for the first time that when you drive you have a habit of turning up the radio louder than necessary and tapping your hands on the steering wheel.  I remember now how I caught you singing along. 

Twice.

It's Michael's birthday and I remember, last year, walking up and down the aisles in the drug store with you, picking out gifts.  I remember how I thought it was nice - for once - not to go shopping alone.  Did you know that for years and years I shopped all by myself, checking things off my list without really even paying attention?  Well.  It's true.  I did. 

I remember how that day I wondered - for a split second - what it would be like to spend my weekends with you.

You leaned over the cart and you dared me and smiled and I couldn't resist (you...or the dare...probably both.).   So I did what you asked and got scolded like a fifth grader.  I remember how though I acted mad I really didn't care and when you laughed and called me a dork I thought (knew) I might (could...already did) love you and - for a split second - it didn't scare me so much.

For once.

It's Michael's birthday and I remember how last year, when we got to the rink it was even more ridiculous.  Kevin was worried and we were worried for him and Michael kept quoting dialogue from The Mighty Ducks.   I remember I admitted to you that I never skated well; I had always been too scared of falling.  How when I was younger I'd always clutch the edge, envious of those who were able to spin and twirl. 

But of course, you refused to let me do that and - for a split second - out there with you? I almost believed I could join them.

Almost.                                                 

It's Michael's birthday and though we're only in the conference room, I keep imagining the way it was last year.  I keep waiting for you to come skating by and take my hand and pull me away from where I'm standing, pressed up against the wall. 

It's a year later but I feel like I'm back where I started.  I'm still clutching the edge, watching someone else spin and twirl in the center of the ice.  I keep trying to let go but it's so hard. 

So much harder than I ever imagined.

It's Michael's birthday and I manage to catch your eye for just a moment as I cut the horrible excuse for birthday cake that he made me order from the ice cream parlor downtown.   I give you a slice and my hand brushes yours and I remember that night and how long it took for you to really let me go.  It hurts too much so I make some sort of stupid joke and though I know for sure you've heard me you don't even crack a smile. 

But as you turn away I swear I can hear you chuckle and whisper, "Such a dork."

And it's then - for a split second - that I think maybe you might remember after all.