our village (3)

This might be a little presumptuous, but I think that sometimes friendships are made or at least developed by somebody going out on a limb and risking embarrassment by saying it, so I’m just going to go ahead and say it: I think we’re developing a nice friendship. I’ll admit it’s unconventional, but it’s not like some of my past friendships, which felt more like I was examining someone’s life by standing outside their house at night and watching them, distance and glass between us, and shadows, and no ability to hear each other’s voices. No, this feels a little more intimate, I guess, more like we’re in the same house, the same floor (not like Roger and Sara, who are just pretending, if you ask me). You and I are in the same room, compromising on what music to put on, conversing.  That — this — is friendship, right? Thank you for sharing this with me.

When I was in sixth grade, Mrs. Montgomery told me to wipe the smirk off my face and I didn’t dare tell her that I wasn’t smirking because it was clear that she thought I was smirking, so I realized for the first time ever that someone — like me, for example — might not know what he or she looks like to someone else, and I vowed then and there to give someone a break even if they looked angry or put-upon or unfairly aggrieved. I didn’t want to assume how they felt just based on the way their face looked like it was smirking, or on the way their bent-necked shrugging-shoulder posture made them look depressed.

So, without being too presumptuous, what I want to know from you is how old do you feel? I think you look a little bit older than you are. You can admit that; it’s not a bad thing. In fact, I think it can be really useful to look older than you are. I know how old you look, and I know how old you are, but what I don’t know is how old you feel.  So?


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