Yesterday, I vowed publicly that I would go talk to “Jane,” and I soon regretted that decision. Towards the end of the day, my hands were sweaty and I had used the restroom four times in the last hour. At 4:45, the appointed hour arrived. I was thinking at the time that it would be much easier for me to storm Omaha beach on D-Day than to go talk to Jane. Sure, Germans would be riddling the beach with shells and machine-gun bullets, but at least I wouldn’t have to talk to anyone, unless I needed to shout “Medic!” but it seemed like that would come naturally.

I found myself standing up on wobbly legs and moving slowly out in the hallway towards Jane’s cube. It was as if some external force were grabbing me by the collar and leading me along. The hallway seemed to narrow and lengthen like in a horror movie, yet I arrived at Jane’s cubicle much earlier than expected. I wanted to use the restroom again. To my dismay, Jane was sitting there. I was secretly hoping that she had gone so that I could get credit for attempting a courageous act without having to actually talk.

Jane has a pleasant but crowded cubicle. The floor is covered with plants, and her desk has a water fountain with a little Buddha guy fishing on top of a rock, a terrarium with some unseen animal inside, a candy jar that anyone can eat from, more plants, and lots of pictures of birds and foreign places like the Taj Mahal.

“Hi Harlan,” she said, smiling. She knew my name.

“Hello,” I said, instantly cursing myself for not having said “hi.” I took some comfort in the fact that I would be dead in fifty years.

There was a pause. I thought it was her turn to talk, but she seemed to want me to talk. I tried to look relaxed by crossing my legs and placing my hand on her half wall, but it had the opposite effect. There was too much strain on my arm, so I felt like I was doing a one-arm push-up. So I stood up straight and folded him arms.

“I was just wondering . . .” I said, but I stopped, not knowing what to say next. Jane has a birthmark rash on the side of her neck that looks like a deformed hand crawling up out of her collar. For some reason, this rash comforted me, and I continued.

“I was wondering if you knew that the Neptune server is shutting down this Friday evening for maintenance,” I blurted.

“Oh, I don’t, um,” she stammered. “Hey, are you going to the Christmas party?”

I wanted to say that there is a less than zero percent chance that I would ever go to any Christmas party, but I didn’t.

“Sure.”

“Great, I’ll see you Thursday night, m’kay?”

My heart wings carried me back to my cubicle. Oh sweet Jane. Oh sweet, sweet Jane!