“You don’t even know who I am. You don’t have the slightest idea who I am.”
The cushion created a rustle as I shifted less than a few inches. “Am I supposed to recount all the points in my life leading up to this moment and just hope that it’s coherent, that it makes some sort of sense to you?”
“It doesn’t make any sense to me.” The face went blank as though making an attempt to describe the statement, then it came alive again with expectations of a satisfactory response.
“I don’t have the slightest idea who I am and I’m supposed to explain it to you? And why, you tell me why. Why do I have to explain myself to you?” The discomfort in my voice was now creating disturbances in the air, I felt it, I know she did too – the air around us certainly felt it. There began a phenomena as if the lights in the room played tricks with the rays of sunlight seeping through the curtains making everything a performance.
“Because, maybe I can help you” – This was a plea.
“Help me with what?” – This was a rejection.
The following happened very quickly before either of us had any time to generate appropriate expressions.
“My problem, Do I have a problem? I look around me in this town and I see … I feel comparatively healthy.”
“You’ve got a problem.”
“You’re right,”- The resurgence of facial disposition aided dialogue delivery, “I’ve got a lot of problems, but they belong to me.”
“You think they’re yours but they’re not, everybody that walks through that door becomes a part of your problem. Anybody that comes in contact with you -”
The abrupt discontinuation was deliberate; the messenger is immune to every retaliatory round of gunfire and therefore automatically pardoned for transporting the message. The message, however vicious must go through the entire process of changing hands gaining new ownership, giving away to evolution. I got up and walked rhythmically to the window and gently began drawing the curtains in the opposite direction, putting an end to the performance.