It’s January.

You ask someone to the prom.

“Why, thank you for the invitation,” your intended date says. “Since there’s plenty of time yet, let me think about it and get back to you.”

You give space.

It’s March.

You haven’t heard back from your intended date.

You feel like you should follow up on the subject, but you keep quiet for fear of coming across as pushy or of otherwise jinxing yourself.

You buy two tickets, just in case.

It’s April.

You still haven’t heard back from your intended date.

You go ahead and select your own formalwear, hoping that maybe it will still complement whatever your intended date might choose to wear.

It’s prom night.

You still haven’t heard back from your intended date.

You drive to the venue in your own car, stopping at a florist for the last boutonniere in the clearance cooler. Ten more bucks, you can handle blowing; hundreds for a limousine far too spacious for one, not so much.

You stand a discreet distance from the curb, boutonniere in box in hand.

A limousine pulls up.

You finally get the answer for which you have waited since January.

Your would-be date steps out.

So does your would-be date’s . . . date.

You avert your eyes as the couple walk into the venue for the prom.

You place the boutonniere, still boxed, on precisely the spot on the curb that bore your would-be date’s first footfall.

You now have to decide . . .

. . . the direction in which you walk.