She says, “I envy the way you feel only
what you want, the way the world never boils in the inside of your bones. It
must be liberating not to need to rage aloud.”
And I just watch her… and wonder, how
many decibels of self-involvement does it take to grow deaf enough to unhear
the growls of self-discipline that constantly remind me not to snap in the face
of selective ignorance?
“Really,” her tongue goes on and on, brain still on mute,
“you’re so lucky.”
“Yes,” I say, taking a few breaths,
reminding myself who I am and why I am, “I am lucky.” In my head, I add, Lack
of luck would’ve left the skin of my knuckles on your teeth. And who needs that
sort of filth in their hands?
Perhaps finally sensing the mood feeding my tone, she smiles
an unsure smile. And I hope a little.
