Dismissed

There is an obvious tension between us. My left hand, swinging at my side like a stilted pendulum, brushes hers as we walk. An instant retreat follows. Typical of my general situation, my behavior is. Look. Look at me. I am like an Impala that runs away at the sight of an oncoming four by four. I want to be a brave and special antelope, staying, waiting, and showing off my distinguishing characteristics. There would be documentaries about me on Animal Planet, on Discovery, on National Geographic. I would be the most famous antelope on the planet. However, it seems as if I’m nothing but a frightened buck that runs away, waiting in a pathetic stupor for a leopard to clamp its lethal fangs around my throat.

This behavior cannot stand. I’ve had enough. I decide to force conversation.
“Do you like living in London,” I ask, the pitch of my voice fluctuating nervously, “Are you enjoying it?”

She responds, her mood dial is set on disinterested, “Yes. It is truly…nice.”
Spotting a conversational dead end, I choose to try something different.

“I dream often,” I state and she turns to look at me, “And the other night, I had a weird one. I was at work and my boss, a mild mannered guy, storms into my cubicle. He is in a rage. He screaming with pure horror and begins to ransack my desk, messing my papers and throwing my stationary all over the carpet. He lifts my stapler and hurls it with full force against the thin wall of the cubicle. The flying stapler crashes through the Formica, and all of a sudden, there’s this stapler-shaped hole in the wall.”

She stares at me, expectant.
With a piercing look deep into her sky-blue eyes, I say to her, “That’s it. That’s my dream.”
She breaks my gaze and walks away.
I stand on the grey pavement for a few moments, watching as she drifts away like a wispy cloud.

Finally, my impala instincts kick in. I turn around and walk towards the tube station, alone.