The Engagement was something larger than herself or him, and even the two of them together, she would quickly realize. 

As she wandered around the apartment, making calls, she was astonished to find that other people seemed to know what to say and do, offering responses similar-yet-particular-to-themselves, when she offered the news. She found, also, they offered up feelings and opinions about her and her life, which were often different from her own.

It seemed she and everyone else diverged in punctuation; in meter and pitch. For instance, it was unclear to her exactly what was so new about her life — since nothing felt different from the day before, or the week before, not really, there wasn’t even a new ring or any other reminder of some supposed seismic shift — yet, others seemed to have divided her life into a New Chapter.

Congratulations on this New Chapter., they said with a period.

While she continued to be full of ellipses, avoidant of periods, as always, the voices through the receiver were full of exclamation marks, such that they sounded physically higher than her, no longer touching the ground, reminding her of that high-pitched flute the old church lady played most Sundays when she was little.

Eeeekkkk!!
Congratulations!!!!
How did he AAAASSSK!!??

She’d always dreaded Flute-Sundays, even worse: Flute-Sundays with that accompanying soprano Opera Singer. Slipping into the family’s regular pew, she’d open the Sunday program and scan for “Music,” hoping that Scott the Organist would be listed there, filling in for one reason or another. She liked Scott, from the angle and distance she knew him, which amounted to the back of his head and about 15 pews. But it was the organ she longed for. The organ’s sound so comforting, grounded in space and time. Closer to God, she’d thought, if anything or any sound was. She wondered why God allowed the existence of flutes. And Opera Singers.

Now, over the receiver, everyone seemed out-of-reach, while she remained her usual organ or oboe. Did God cringe, like her, at these high-pitched, assuming voices? However well intended? She imagined God’s rolling eyes.

But she was happy others were happy for her — and grateful. Which did make her think, if not swiftly enough. At some point, she would realize too slowly for it to be of much use, that it was possible she the one out of tune, punctuated all wrong. Perhaps her connection to others was different than she had imagined.

She supposed she was indeed joining the group, or confirming a place in it. Moving forward as others did, through observable lines and patterns. Which is what she had wanted, after all. Some movement. Trajectory. Didn’t she? To have something in common. Some metric of progression recognizable to others. If only, perhaps, so that it may be recognizable to herself.

It registered also, at some point, that she had not known what to say or do when the situation was reversed. She was sat in the orange puffy chair, under the light of the window, when a rush of memories overwhelmed her — the occasions when she had not said or done the right things.

She had not, for instance, taken the time to stop and take note, as others were now doing for her. To exclaim some new chapter, to underline or accent or mark the moment. Not at all. She recalled, in particular, being very absent during her best friend Aida’s engagement. In fact, hadn’t she gone to Aida’s wedding on a lunch break? She recalled she hadn’t even taken an extra hour off that day to join in celebration. She suddenly felt quite stupid, unobservant, and sad. Had she failed the closest of friends? Mistakenly thinking she was the one who had it all right? Cringing at those unlike her? Full of pride.

She had an impulse to call Aida and apologize, to ask what she seemed like from out there, where the in-tune, well-punctuated people resided. To ask if she had been mistaken all along. Did everyone else already know? Was she just catching up? To say she was so sorry.

She wondered what they must think of her. 

But she could not bring herself to ask.