It’s ridiculous how heavy a god forsaken piece of paper can be, especially when you’re not expecting to be holding something so fucking monumental. Not at nine in the morning when you’re still in your boxers and you’ve got a coffee mug that your niece gave you for Christmas in one hand. You contemplate spilling the staining, dark liquid all over the envelope, saying whoops and throwing it away.

But you’re still standing here. And the envelope is still white.

You sit back on your couch, letting your head roll back and worrying the worn hole on the cushion with little tufts of sofa guts poking out. You stare at the envelope and you try to feel indignant that it’s addressed to Roy Anderson, when they don’t even really know you anymore. Or that they had the balls to invite you at all, considering your history, even though on some level (on most of your levels, actually) you recognize it for what it is. A peace offering. Fence mending. Bridge rebuilding after a terrible, not-so sudden fire had engulfed the supports.

At some point you realize that this is like ripping off a band-aid: it’s best to do it lightening-quick. Don’t think about it. Which is why the envelope is now open and the invitation is sitting in your lap. Mocking you.

You really fucked that up, didn’t you?

You had invitations once. Invitations and fabric swatches in pastel colors and bouquets. You hadn’t really paid much attention then, except to maybe the price tag, and well. This is only fair, you guess.

It doesn’t seem like there’s been enough time for them to be getting married already. You saw the guy, what, a year ago? And she’d been off partying in New York. You’re not going to lie and say that hadn’t made you feel pretty smug at the time. Pining after a girl for years and the man can’t even keep her in the same state.

Pam went to visit her sister in New Jersey a few weeks before you were supposed to get married, just after that casino thing. She came back and called the whole thing off.

But maybe that was just you. Maybe Jim was the type of guy girls come back to.

If you weren’t trying to stay on the wagon, you could really use a drink right about now.

There was a time that she’d been everything you’d ever wanted. Kids. Mutt with a collar in Steelers colors. Backyard deck you’d stained yourself on the weekend. But somewhere between high school and your late-twenties… she wasn’t it. And you could only guess she felt the same; there was a point where denial and a pyramid of beer cans couldn’t make it untrue. Fake second chances only drove that particular reality straight home.

This is the point where you realize that not reading the damn thing won’t make it disappear, won’t make its feather-light weight in your lap feel less like an anvil some psycho coyote dropped on your head. So your eyes scan the cream paper and maybe it’s not so bad.

We cordially invite you to attend the union of Pamela Morgan Beesly and James William Halpert in holy matrimony.

You sigh.

Things change. You’ll get over it.