M. R. Green

"So," he said, settling into the chair across the table from me. It was that awkward, blank time that follows just after an early arrival and just before an actual event.

He smiled confidently, and light-heartedly asked, "Tell me about yourself."

It seemed a simple question. And yet, it always made me squirm. "What part?" I asked.

His eyebrows closed in, his smile widened. "How about you in general?"

In general? In general what, exactly? I gave the only answer I felt I could truthfully give. "I suppose I am what I do. And if perception is reality, then I suppose I am what I'm perceived to be."

He wasn't smiling as much. In fact, he looked confused. He wasn't leaning back comfortably in his chair anymore, either. Now, he was leaning on his elbows over his clasped hands.

"Well, what do you like to do?" he asked.

I didn't have a single answer to that, either. I said, "Oh, lots of things." and offered a smile.

He shook his head slightly, snorting ever so quietly. "Those are some pretty vague answers."

"Those were some pretty vague questions." I said.

People began to file in. He looked at his watch, and then back at me. I could see it in his face. He thought I was being intentionally enigmatic. I smiled as best I could through slightly trembling lips. I only meant to be truthful. I could have given insincere lines about how tall I was, or if I was male or female, but he could easily answer those questions himself. If I tried to tell him about my character, it might have been true one minute, and a lie the next. The same with where I live, or what my passions are, my family life, or pets. And, even if none of that changed, it could, and I'd still be me. In fact, I've never been able to define the constant that makes me who I am. The best I could offer him about who I am was time to decide for himself and to find a familiarity in me, which was more time than we had in the passing minutes between the shifting of lives.