People Are Talking

For some reason, one guy called you Ana. He knew about you and me. He said we are getting old and still haven't walked in the glow of each other's majestic presence. What you think I might say if there was a me for you. I don't believe him when he posits that you don't want the world.

Another guy from Portland had the class to not brag about his hometown being named the cleanest in America, and followed that with not mentioning you by name. (I know, decorum again.) But he still nailed it. "Pages upon pages," he said, "trying to rid you from my bones."

I asked a girl from Canada. She seemed to have been given the details long ago. She wasn't afraid to call me a monster. She pointed out that Fate had a hand, but wouldn't lay blame. Somehow, without being precious she talked about the sense of holding on to something senseless. I asked her what the hell I'm supposed to do with that. She kept it to a knowing look and said: "You do what you have to do."

I'm tired of everyone knowing about us. Tired of the effort everyone makes to maintain the dignity they think I deserve. Tired of wondering what they say when we're not around. Tired of wondering, period.