Catherine always hated State of the Union day. 

The yearly political spectacle in which the president highlights all these programs and initiatives that may or may not even happen meant two things to her: an insanely long day and having to dress up more than usual for work.  She hated both equally.  Gone was her easy Tuesday 9-5 answering phones for a junior partner at the K Street firm Wellborn & Associates.  In its place, the non-stop ringing of clients wanting to know how a particular policy might affect them (and what could be done about it), and worse, a “Special Extended SOTU Happy Hour!” the firm was hosting at a bar a few blocks from the office to watch the speech.  Gone too was her simple simple work attire, which usually consisted of whichever dressy pants weren’t wrinkled, the basic color t-shirt she tucked into them, and her favorite pair of matte black flats.  Not acceptable on this grand occasion.  This was the State.Of.The.Union. (emphasis Mr. Wellborn’s, not hers).

A new black skirt that fell three inches below her knees, shoes that ignored the line between boots and three-inch heels and a collared white top all combined with an extra hour spent blending her makeup and curling her shoulder-length auburn hair to make the person staring back in the mirror seem like someone entirely different.  Even on the train to work at 7:30 a.m. she knew she would be the most under-dressed person in the office.  Not that she minded that part, the fancy Washington bullshit that permeated so many of her peers but never appealed to her at all.  She made a killing selling the inaugural ball ticket Wellborn had personally delivered to each person as if it would grant them entry to Wonka’s Chocolate Factory.

Just after 2 p.m., Catherine moseyed over to the break room in search of a much needed pick me up and found her friend Max staring far too hard at a vending machine.  He was the only other “normal” in the whole place.  They had met a year earlier when she arrived at her desk one day and found him sitting in her chair, completely oblivious to the fact that he was supposed to be two offices down the hall.  They struck up a conversation about the Capitals mug on her desk and built a friendship on a mutual hate of Sidney Crosby.  But on this day, he was talking to a machine, asking if it felt like a Cheez-Its day or a Famous Amos day.  She tiptoed in and stood behind him, trying unsuccessfully to stifle her laughter.

“Don’t act like you’ve never done this,” he said.  “This machine has spirits.  I don’t deny their vital role in this process.”

Catherine stepped forward and folded her arms to match his pensive stance.  She nodded along as if he were lecturing about something rational, like the formation of black holes.

“Not me,” she said.  “I trust my gut.”

His stone-faced expression did not crack.

“Oh come on, that was a hilarious vending machine joke!”

“One out of ten.” he said, allowing a slight smile.

“One?!  At least give me a four.  I deserve that four and you know it, Max.”

“I can’t insult snack culture like that.  Have some respect.”

“Fine.  Will you at least move out of the way while the spirits hypnotize your nougat chi or whatever is happening here so that I can get something?”

He stared at her and slowly leaned in to hug the machine.

“The spirits…I feel them.”

“You’re about to feel that table over there on the back of your skull.”

Max took half a step back and spun around, facing her as she clasped her hands behind her back and flashed “can I help you” eyes.

“Do you trust me?” he asked.

Without hesitation she said yes, and he slowly reached out and slid the dollar bill out of her hand.  He turned and fed it into the machine, then turned back to her.  Their eyes locked and stayed focused on each other as he felt around for the keypad and blindly punched in numbers.  A bag dropped from the top row, and he awkwardly bent and reached behind him to retrieve it.

“The spirits have selected for you….Sun Chips!”

“I know.  I watched the thing fall.  Please tell the spirits how much I appreciate them sending me my absolute favorite thing in the world.”

“Oh really? he asked, full of satisfaction.

“No!  We’ve talked about this a million times, Max.  I hate those.  Do you pay attention to anything I say?”

“I do, I guess I just don’t remember that happening.”

Catherine’s mouth failed to close fast enough to stop her brain’s chosen response.

“This is probably why Jenny dumped you, you know.”

Only a week had passed since his girlfriend of four years — the whole reason he was even in D.C. — had suddenly ended their relationship with only vague explanations of why.

“Thanks,” Max said.  He moved past her and left the break room, dropping the bag of chips on the table on his way out.

She found him hours later at the bar, sipping a beer away from the private room where their bosses were schmoozing clients before the speech.

“Hey, where’d you go earlier?  I really wanted to talk to you, and you know, apologize.  That was really awful of me to say.”

“I decided to work off site for a while, dropped in on a couple of people.”

“Oh, ok.  Well, you know I didn’t really mean that, right?”

He shrugged.

“You said what you said.”

“I know, but –”

“Just stop.  You’re supposed to be my friend.  Friends don’t make fun of shitty situations like that.”

Catherine felt a lump building in her throat and anxiously rubbed her fingernails together.  Gears turned in her head as an awkward silence hung between them.

“So how can I fix this?” she asked.  “Because, you know deep down I care about you.  You have to know that.  I don’t know why I said what I said, but I do know I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Ok then how did you mean it?”

“In a non-hurtful way?”

“I’m sorry that’s just not possible.”

“Max…”

She put her hand on his shoulder, searching for some hint of the right path, and felt it rise as he inhaled deeply and hung his head.  A second later, his head lifted, and he pulled back the last chug of his beer before sliding the glass back on the bar.

“I’m sorry, Catherine.  I think I need to be alone for a while.  Find me tomorrow.”

Max stood up, turned and grabbed his coat in one fluid motion, slipping it on as he walked to the door, never looking at her pleading eyes.  She felt tears welling up, but willed them back as she sat down on the vacated stool.  As the bartender ambled over, she cleared her throat and put on a fake smile.

“Vodka soda?”

“Sure thing, honey.”