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  • "Tuesday?" I thought. "You want to schedule dinner for a Tuesday next month? Isn't your birthday on Wednesday?"

    To be fair, I had a standing commitment for Wednesday nights, but I would gladly shift things around. I could volunteer early. I could skip. I didn't like to stay long on the third Wednesday of the month, anyway; with orientation, the room grew loud, crowded, and hot. Even if it weren't the third Wednesday, though, I could make anything work, but when I suggested a plan, she wrinkled her brow.

    "Are you going to be here?"

    "I am," I smiled.

    "Well, maybe we can do Tuesday again," she mused.

    A few weeks earlier, she had suggested we meet one of two July Tuesdays or a Saturday afternoon sometime in August.

    "Tomorrow won't work," I had said at the time, "but I'll be free on the other date. With travel, my August weekends have suddenly disappeared!"

    Somehow, it seemed our summers had filled with work, travel, and life. She had already committed her Saturday mornings and evenings and the rest of her nights. She didn't ask what worked for me.

    "Tuesday?" I thought.

    We had known each other for years. We knew each others' families, friends, and dietary restrictions. We had traveled the world and seen each other at our best and our worst. We shared history. We share hobbies and memories. We shared...

    I couldn't remember what else we shared.

    "Tuesday?" I thought. "Isn't your birthday on a Wednesday?"

    It was.

    It wasn't the day of the week. Tuesday were fine. Anything would work, and I might have made myself available almost any day of the week and most weekends except when I had a plane ticket out of here. In the past, I had. I had made myself available, but while she looked at her calendar and left without making a date, I considered whether I really wanted to spend my time with someone who clearly didn't want to spend time with me.

    "Tuesday?" I thought. "I might be busy that night."
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