Secrets

There is anger in my actions. And in my movements. I make to add sugar in my coffee and spill it all over the counter. I crack eggs to whisk and the shell falls into the bowl. I lean down for a hug and the car roof gets in the way. I hurt myself and cut myself and burn myself and hurt knees and elbows and backs. And still it doesn’t stop. I move to gently place my phone on the pillow next to me, and it goes flying across the room, where it sits on the floor, looking at me with accusation written all over it.

Shouldn’t it be me with the accusatory eyes and the vindicated smile? Shouldn’t I tell you that you got me wrong, that I didn’t want that but you jumped to conclusions and left anyway? Shouldn’t I say that after all these years of not keeping in touch at all, this is all you know of me? Yes, the accusations should be mine.

And now you come back, saying it wasn’t a big deal and you don’t understand my anger at being misunderstood. And I think, thank god. But don’t tell you that. Of course not. Here we are, tentative, treading on those proverbial egg shells. After a call gone horribly wrong and letters misunderstood, we stick to the short texts. And try to build. A fledgling friendship, alone in this world, no one knows and as long as that happens, nothing will happen. Can we just stay the two of us this way? Because when the world intrudes, things get ugly. But if I told you, you’d get wary and wonder at my intentions. I’m lonely, can’t you see? I need soul, not sex. I need conversation, not complacence. But i don’t tell you that.

Of course not.