a matter of mathematics and common sense

 

You left the party early.

Again.

Kept whispering in my ear,

“I have this social anxiety disorder.

I’m very uncomfortable.  I’m sorry, I can’t do this.”

 

You were wearing clothes that had the

morning headlines written all over them and

I was anxious to do a readability index on you; but

you disappeared before I could even recall the

formula to measure it.

 

I figured I couldn’t do anything for you, anyway,

but thought maybe I could have at least...

 

But probably not.

 

When I got home, I called you.

Got your voicemail.

You were probably hiding under the sheets.

Sweating.

Crying.

Petitioning somebody.

Maybe the Lord.

Maybe just your shrink.

 

Who knows?

 

You always had very secular beliefs.

 

Didn’t laugh much in those days.

Hardly cracked a smile.

Slept twelve, thirteen hours a day.

Ate next to nothing.

 

Whenever you did have contact

with the world it was always from

a comfortable distance.

 

You were always reluctant to talk

about yourself.

Your past.

Your future.

Didn’t even talk about your job

as a dispatcher for a cable TV company.

 

At night, you sat in front of the TV under

a blanket, even in July and August.

 

Kept your thermostat at 65 year round.

 

“One way or another I get what I need,”

you told me the day before your birthday.

 

You were turning thirty.  I came over.

Gave you a present.

A papier-mache elephant.

You about cried, but laughed instead.

 

Fortunately, my feelings weren’t hurt.

 

 

But then again I was a lot better at compartmentalizing my feelings in those days.