"Home from work so early, Mike? There was something for you in the mail. It's on the dining room table."

"Thanks, mom."

I close the front door and deposit my motorcycle helmet on the kitchen counter. Sauntering over to the sleek rosewood table, I eye the pile of mail on it. I spot my cellphone bill and pick it up, but there's something else. A glossy silver envelope, addressed to Mr. Michael Altermann. I don't get mail very often, unless you count bills, and my interest is piqued. I try to open the sleek envelope without ripping the silver paper, but it tears a bit anyway. It doesn't really matter.

I remove a stiff card from the envelope. It is cream colored, with embossed writing in soft purple. I read it and blink. I am, it seems, invited to the wedding of Michelle Martinson and Adam Pritchard, which will take place at "The Royal Garden", a popular and upscale banquet hall in the city, two months from now.

Michelle. Once upon a time, I thought I was madly in love with her. Once, the sound of her voice was enough to set my heart to pounding in my chest. I still remember the smell, the taste of her. The way I would delight in her body, savoring every inch of her, devouring her. The way her fingers would clutch at my hair and the way she would look into my eyes when she came, shuddering beneath me.

There was another girl, the sexy and dangerous type, with a lethal smile and killer cleavage, and when I thought I had a chance with her, I broke it off with Michelle. What can I say? I was young, hormone-driven and stupid.

Michelle cried and begged me not to leave her, telling me that she loved me, that she couldn't, wouldn't live without me. She continued to call me for a few weeks, but in the face of my stony silence she eventually lost heart and stopped trying to contact me. Meanwhile, I had my little fling with the other girl, but it didn't work out, and by the time I knew what I had given up, it was too late. I had lost Michelle. I couldn't bring myself to contact her, after that.

Since then there have been other girls. Some of whom I felt a deep connection with, some who I was sad to lose. They all seemed to want more commitment than I could offer them. They wanted permanence, something concrete. That's not what I'm looking for. Or maybe I just haven't found The One yet. I haven't thought about Michelle much lately; haven't talked to her in years.

She sent the invitation to my parents' home. Does she know that I still live with them? Or is it just that she figures that my parents will forward it to wherever I'm living now? Probably the latter, I figure.

I won't go. I don't want to see her, standing next to the man she has chosen to spend the rest of her life with. I don't want to talk to her, see her, flushed and excited, and reluctantly tell her, when she asks, because surely she will ask, that I'm still working odd jobs, still living with my parents.

I don't want to see the pity in her eyes.

I chose this life. Things could have been different, maybe they could have been better, but you can't go through life second-guessing yourself. All the girls I slept with are getting married, meanwhile, I still live with my parents. Sometimes, that's just the way things work out.