Bold Since June
There was one email in my inbox that had been bold since June. It had a star on it too, in case I forgot, which I never once did.
It came from a woman I sat next to at my first office job, years ago. She showed me which drawer the good pens lived in, and how to clear the photocopier with a ruler. Now she teaches an evening class at the college, for people starting out in offices. In June she wrote asking if I'd come and talk to her class one evening in the autumn term, about what a project manager does all day.
I starred it and meant to answer that week. Every Monday after that, I opened it and read it again, then marked it unread so it would stay bold. In my first meeting I'd rewrite the opening line in my head. It always started with sorry and never got any further.
On Tuesday at ten to nine I was at my desk with a coffee, and I clicked on the starred ones. There was only one. The fourteenth of June, "One evening this autumn?" Her autumn term had started in September.
I knew then I wasn't going. I'd known in June. I didn't want to give up an evening explaining warehouse software to people who'd already done a day's work, and saying so felt rude to someone who had once shown me the good pens. So I kept it bold. As long as it was bold, it was a maybe, and a maybe let me go on being the sort of person who says yes.
It had been a no since June. I just hadn't told anyone, including me.
She'd planned her whole term around my maybe. Saying no was my job, and I'd left it to her.
An email you've meant to answer for months is already a no. You're allowed to stop meaning to. Say it in one line she can hear, and it's finished, not undone.
So I wrote the line. "I'm not going to be able to come and talk to your class, and I'm sorry it took me till October to say so." I read it once and sent it before I could make it nicer. It took a minute, and the coffee hadn't even gone cold.
The minute after was the worst part. She might be hurt. She might never ask me for anything again, which would be fair. That's what a no costs.
While I waited, I went down the rest of the inbox. A newsletter from a shop where I once bought a lamp. A survey from the garage, asking how they did. They did fine. Nobody is waiting on either of those, so I left them bold. When nobody waits, you owe it nothing, not even the line.
But if you've got one with a star on it and a person at the other end, give them the line. One sentence, before your coffee goes cold.
She wrote back before lunch to say she'd half guessed. In the end she'd asked a man from the bus company. The class liked him. He brought a timetable.
I took the star off. Now everything bold in my inbox is something nobody is waiting for.
