"Hey, I'm getting married on this date. You're in the wedding. You'll be around, right?"
Those aren't her exact words, but I've captured the gist of them exactly. Just remove the capitals, insert the date, and a few abbreviations that only she and I would ever understand.
I stared at the screen, feeling like I was in Grey's Anatomy: seriously? seriously! seriously?! I varied the tones, I emphasized first one syllable, then another. I lowered my voice at the beginning, then at the end. I raised an eyebrow, then let it fall. But all I was left with was that one word, in its many permutations: seriously.
And it stabbed me as it has so many times over the years. This assumption that I would always do what she asked - no, demanded, commanded - me to do. This flighty dismissal of my life and the possibility that I could have anything else going on that was of equal or (gasp! impossible!) more importance. This flippant question which asked, requested, nothing, but managed to imply a wealth of assumption that I would be available, of course I would be available, for what else could there possibly be for me to do, at the twitch of her little finger. Presumption.
An hour later I realize I have been staring at my computer screen flitting from one website to another, yet seeing nothing, always returning to her open email.
She didn't even sign it "Love" I thought. Such a silly thought. We never sign our emails with "Love" not ever. She didn't even say hi. We never say hi. She didn't even...
She didn't even actually ask.
I sigh and shake my head, telling my heart to stop angrily hammering in my chest every time I glance at her words. Shouldn't I be used to this by now? Should I even be expecting anything more? My silly heart. My silly little heart. Always expecting more from people when you know from experience that they aren't like that. They never were, they never will be. Considerate. Thoughtful. Stop hammering, my silly heart, stop feeling woeful and glum. It isn't worth it you know. It never is. You make a ruckus in my chest and you make my rib cage hurt, but it doesn't change matters an ounce. You'll get over it, my silly little heart, you always do. And next time I'm sure you'll jump up once again, ready to welcome her in at the twitch of her little finger, as you always do.
I close the window. I don't trust myself to reply at once. And suddenly I cannot swallow. And suddenly my fingers don't want to type anymore.
Because this isn't how I'm supposed to react to my sister's wedding invitation.