It's a cheesecake.
It was from two coworkers, for my birthday on Monday.
My birthday was not on Monday.
These two coworkers have been hired to do construction on the building in which I toil. They often take breaks in my "office" - which is just the lounge. It has a television, and a charming assortment of torn and not-quite-broken furniture. The two construction workers watch Animal Planet and take siestas during the noon hour. Sometimes I'm there, sometimes I'm off taking calls.
These two construction workers are Mexican. I have not actually had a conversation with either of them, though often I say hello to them in the hallway or as I'm coming out of the elevator, and I know one of them has two girlfriends - one Mexican, one white - but that has been the extent of our interaction. So I was very surprised when, today, while I was trying to shove my lunch of tempeh and cold potatoes down my throat between calls, the taller of the two (and yes, I do know their names, but for blogging purposes they will remain anonymous) walked up to me and said they made me a cake to celebrate my birthday on Monday.
I stared at him.
"It wasn't my birthday on Monday," I said. I asked him if he was mixing me up with someone else.
He showed me the cake in the fridge.
It was a cheesecake. He looked at me as if it proved that my birthday was, indeed, on Monday.
I told him, again, that it hadn't been my birthday.
"We both had a slice," he said. "We were looking for you yesterday, and you weren't here. We wanted to say Happy Birthday."
I thanked him and the other worker, and said yes, I'd eat a slice. They went back to Animal Planet.
Confused, I asked my other coworkers if they knew anything about the cake in the refrigerator. The first few people I asked seemed just as confused as I was.
Then one of my coworker buddies sauntered over to me. He told me that the two men who had made me the cake had been looking for me yesterday, but they had not known my name. They had asked where "that girl" was. "Which girl?" he had asked them. "The young one." "There are three younger ones." "The one that's always reading." That was when he knew they were talking about me.
"Apparently they saw another coworker giving you something and wishing you Happy Birthday," he said.
"Oh," I said, remembering that on Monday another coworker had kindly brought me some chocolate she didn't want, and had presented it to me with the necessary and sarcastic "Happy Birthday."
"That makes sense," I said, explaining the reject chocolate.
"They saw her giving you a gift and wishing you a happy brithday," said my coworker, "and they felt really bad that no one else had."
Gracias, señores.
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