Me:
You: I can’t do this because you’re not ready to be yourself around me. Sometimes you don’t
know yourself as well as you think you do. You’re not half bad. I’m not going anywhere, okay?
I’m just waiting until you’re ready.
Me:
Me: I might be too much.
You: It’s okay. I’m a too-much kind of person, too.
And his crooked smile is the last thing I want to see before I die.
*****
A dozen pairs of eyes are staring at me and I calmly say – I don’t have any friends – and
it’s the first honest thing I’ve said in a long time and it’s liberating. The rest of the night is a
blur – worried eyes and sad smiles; I’m so tired of them. I sit on my bed, open all the birthday
cards from my not-friends, and start reading them with a carefulness I usually reserve for my
favorite novels. And if I were the person to be sentimental and cry, I would—there’s a tingling
all over my arms and my thoughts feel raw as if they’ve been scrubbed all over.
You’re so good with people. I wonder how you do that.
I’m glad we became friends – I’m pretty sure we are. We’re friends, right?
I’m surprised I like you – I don’t like people in gene