What would be nice, he thought, is if they could talk.
He came up with this silly idea of having a designated hour just for them. Maybe between 12 and 1 am, late enough for sincerity and fragility to make an appearance.
That would be his and her hour, nothing exists outside that time. Outside that…
He’s afraid he won’t know someone like he knew her, and that no one will know him like she knew him.
It took time, but it didn’t feel like effort. So why does it feel like a grueling task to do it with someone new? Perhaps she really was something special, which he has no doubt is true, but that doesn’t offer him any relief.
We have an idea of ourselves, and through our actions, words, mannerisms, wardrobe, and other vectors, we try to infect others with it.
We’re convinced that this idea is the true us. We know ourselves pretty well.
This is why we find it unsettling when someone comes along and shows us ourselves from…