Aren’t People
29 Oct
I met Krista at a Halloween party. She was in a corner, alone, not talking to anyone. Instead, she was having a silent, wordpress conversation with the ground. I imagined that she chose the ground because it doesn’t expect anything from her. Whereas people do.
I walked up to her and asked her if she’d like to talk. About anything at all. The sky? Fairy godmothers? Whatever is on your mind? She smiles and shrugs her shoulders. And fishes a hand around in her pocket until she finds what she’s looking for. A cigarette. “Want to go outside?” she asks.
We leave the party and sit on a curb half a block down the road. She blows smoke toward the ground. Asks why I’m here with her when I could be in there. With anyone else. I tell her that I’m here because I choose to be. And because it’s not possible to be anywhere but here. Ever.
She lifts her head. And laughs. And blows smoke at the moon instead of at the ground. “Can I tell you a story?” she asks. I nod. She speaks of horrors.
As she speaks, her gaze moves from the moon to the ground to my eyes to the moon to the ground. And continues that way. Her emotions and the tone and tempo of her voice move that way too. Even the smoke that she exhales moves first toward the moon and then toward the ground.
“Do you think I’m disgusting now?” she asks, when she’s done speaking.
I smile. And tell her to look at her hands. To touch her face. To feel her heart. And to know that stories aren’t people. They’re just stories.