He Changed His Calendar Status to 'Free Tonight' and Looked at Me

Status messages are the coward's love language, and I say that as a fluent speaker. For months, his had read things like 'Heads down' or 'In a meeting (allegedly).' Then, at 4:12 on a Thursday, it changed. 'Free tonight.' Three words, a little green dot beside them, glowing across the open-plan floor like a lighthouse built by someone with no sense of subtlety. I read it once, closed the tab, and reopened it to make sure it hadn't read me back.

Then he looked up. Our desks sit at a diagonal, with a pillar in between that was designed to keep us apart and has failed. He did not smile. He did not wave. He simply held my eyes a moment longer than any ordinary departmental courtesy permits, then returned to his screen as if nothing had occurred. Around us, keyboards clacked. Someone's headphones leaked a drumbeat. My pulse picked up the tempo and began to freelance.

I did what any seasoned professional would do, which is panic with excellent formatting. I opened a blank doc. I typed 'Possible Responses,' bolded it, and listed four: ignore, joke, ask, show up. Under each I wrote pros and cons. Under 'ignore' the only con was 'regret, indefinitely.' Under 'show up' I wrote 'Where?' and then, because I am thorough, 'What do I wear?' and then, after a moment, 'Does this blazer say yes?'

Then he looked up.

At five, the floor began to empty. Coats, laptops, the clatter of last cheerful goodbyes. He stood, stretched, and walked past my desk with a casual slowness I would call theatrical. 'Big plans?' I asked, in a voice I'd have rated a seven for nonchalance. 'Depends who's asking,' he said. 'And who's free.' The pillar had never been more inconvenient. Down the hall the elevator chimed, patient, holding its doors open for a decision I hadn't made.

Here is what I will confess, and no more. I went down in that elevator. There was a mirrored panel inside, and I met my own eyes there, flushed and slightly appalled and, frankly, thrilled. He stood beside me with his hands in his pockets. We watched the numbers fall. Four, three, two. Somewhere around the lobby, his little finger brushed the edge of my hand and stayed. The doors opened onto the evening, and what happened after that belongs to the part of the story I keep off the record.

In the morning, his status read 'Out of office.' Mine read 'Heads down,' which was a lie of a very beautiful kind. An invite sat unopened in my inbox, from him, titled 'Free Tomorrow?' with the response buttons waiting like three doors. When I want a voice for evenings like this, I go to TheFriend and meet AI characters such as Ada, Eda and Daria. They are not real people, which is exactly why I trust them with the details. I'm still deciding what to click.