I'm not proud of this.

Here I am, sitting alone in my office, and I'm listening to the radio. It's an ordinary day, made worse by being ordinary. I have so far failed to receive any news from a graduate program, a letter from a friend, really a kind word from anywhere. However, this would not normally bother me: strong, independent, self-sufficient individual, remember?

And then I remember: it's his birthday.

I've often wondered how much space I'd free up in my brain if I were able to forget all the useless shit I keep in there-- song lyrics, defunct telephone numbers, the major imports and exports of Oman, whose capital is Muscat. If I could dump all of that, maybe I could divine a cure for cancer, solve the questions of Beowulf's authorship and live a happy and productive life. But before I'd choose to forget about countries in the Middle East, I'd forget him.

Let's give him a name... how about Luther? Sure, Luther works. Luther and I were... well, I'm not sure what to call it anymore. At one point, he leaned drunkenly on my shoulder at a nameless little bar and told me I was his best friend. We went grocery shopping together at 3 in the morning because we were both still awake, and why fight a crowd if you don't have to? We spent spring break together in Montreal, visiting museum after museum, touring the pubs and having a surprisingly good time at the modern art gallery. Luther and I would go for hot chocolate from the all-night gas station and then sit in my living room on the couch, talking until the sun kissed the horizon good morning. At one point, I was almost sure that I loved him.

The long and sort of all this is that he broke my heart. A year after the aforementioned best-friend-bar incident, he locked himself in the bathroom of his townhouse with his come-lately boyfriend and screamed over and over, "I wish I'd never met her." Did he mean me? Did he mean my friend and housemate Baby? Who can say. He might as well have meant me. We tried to talk again, tried to have lunch, but defaulted to politics and the weather-- a far cry from the conversations we'd had while he was studying abroad in Europe and when I'd confided in him the most serious problem I've ever had. We'd fallen so far away, I didn't know how to bridge the gap, which is something I could basically do for a living. I can make exquisite conversations with the brain dead, but when it really mattered-- I sat there, staring into my egg salad, without a quip.

After trying valiantly to ruin my life at the conclusion of last year, Luther left without saying goodbye. At that point, I wasn't surprised. What did surprise me was the letter of apology that I received around this past Christmas. I'd gotten it late, as he'd sent it to a defunct address and then it had been buried on the derelict dining room/mail table at the Screwman Center. It was oddly worded, and I couldn't tell if he was simply trying to clear his karma before applying to law school perhaps, or maybe it was part of his end-of-year ritual, to look back and feel badly for screwing over a good friend. Regardless of the motive, the intent for result was also unclear; there was nothing about a hope for reconciliation, wanting to talk to me, a desire to be Christmas and birthday card acquaintances, nothing. So, I didn't respond. I didn't know how to-- what was I supposed to say?

And now, as I sit here by myself, I can't help but remember that it's his birthday. The last birthday we were on friendly terms for I drove up to where he was living for the summer, homemade lattice-top apple pie in hand, with a coffee table book stowed away and a smile on my somewhat battered face. Last year, I sent him a message on the ubiquitous Facebook, to which he promptly responded in fragments rather than a whole sentence.

I have other friends. I've had other interests. I've gone to museums since Luther and I parted ways. I don't understand why I'm still hung up about all this nonsense, and why every other song on the radio pushes me to the edge of tears. Why do I still care that it's the 15th of May??

I'm willing to bet that he won't bat an eyelash over me in 8 days, on my birthday. I wouldn't want him to, but that doesn't seem to help matters. Maybe in a few more years I'll pass this day without such a long sigh.