I always feel as if people are secretly lying to me, when I ask them a question. They answer with half truth’s, half scripts from an unwatched television show. I always wonder why everyone is holding back, afraid of their real answer, the uncensored self that exists buried beneath layers of worthless information and images they have adapted as part of their persona. I can’t remember the last time someone was real towards me.
It is raining in January. not snowing, but raining, which is making everyone quite hysterical, after they spent months complaining about how much it might snow. But it doesn’t bother me.
“I dare you to punch the table.” He slammed his fist down, my coffee cup almost flew off the saucer, and everyone jumped out of their skin.
“I was always yours” he said, and I just listened, exhaling hard into the winter air.