Penny Reid

“So the unwanting soul

sees what's hidden,

and the ever-wanting soul

sees only what it wants.”

― Lao Tzu

still foxy like a fox.

Chuck, the chuckling honeydew.

They always start the same: the guy tells me he feels comfortable with me even though we don’t know each other. He searches his brain for the reason why, then tells me that I remind him of someone else—his first girlfriend, the girl next door, or the girl who got away. I probe deeper, and he admits it was an older woman, a kind teacher or an aunt or, worse, his mother. He tells me how much that relationship meant to him, then he unloads more than I will ever want to know about his life, his dreams, his expectations, how he failed his parents or siblings or friends, or how they failed him.

In the end, he cries.

When he spoke, life was good.

It did things to me.

It was, as usual, a delicious replacement for physical contact, my comfort food.

“He said you won’t return his calls.”

My smile faltered and I tried not to sound brittle. “I have enough male friends. I’ve decided to give them up for Lent.”

“Lent isn’t for another two weeks.”

“He stares openly at people. It’s as if he has no fear—that or very little understanding of normal social behavior, or a complete disregard for it. Maybe it’s a bit of all three.”

Some people are going to hate no matter what we do or who I try to be, so I might as well just be myself. Our job isn’t to stress about them or please them, it’s to ignore them and nullify their squeaky wheels by being awesome. Or—” Unable to stop myself from touching him this time, give him some comfort, I reached up and cupped his cheek. He immediately covered my hand with his, pressing it to his jaw and leaning into my touch “We drink champagne and watch their hater heads explode when our successes far outpace their poison. And then we let them choke on it.”

Feelings. They are the worst