Walk With Me a While: The Art of Convincing

That perfume you had on your wrist: I wouldn't mind smelling it again.

I never know how to respond to shit like this. There's something about blatant flirtations that are inherently uncomfortable unless there's something already established. There is the expression "feeling embarrassed for someone", but this kind of thing makes me daydream that embarrassment was something you could physically hand to someone and say, "Here. You should put this on."

It's not about shaming a person - we all know how it can be a risk-take to flirt- but just something to turn the volume down a bit when it isn't reciprocated.

What I have learned over the years is that unwanted flirting makes me studious. It makes me turn into a little owl in a three piece suit that wants to arrange his monocle tighter into his eye and march off in the direction of the library stacks.

(pause)

Lately I have been having good conversations with people about art and about literature and about the world around us.

This afternoon I met up with a good friend who is in town who has worked for decades in the domestic violence and/or sexual assault fields.  She was telling me about a grant that has just been received for specific training for nurses who conduct rape kits on people who have just been raped. I live in such a bubble that I was unaware that there are many hospitals that simply don't have the capacity to do rape kits.  That one could conceivably go to the hospital right after a sexual assault and have them say they didn't/couldn't do that here, and sorry.

(pause)

I wrote something earlier today while in between jobs. I like it much better than what I have written, here.  It is the night, whereas, this is daytime on the couch in the sun of an empty suburban living room.

What I wrote that is not here is a bit too confessional. A bit too sexual.

Things are evolving and ending and changing and starting and growing in my life.

Even I need a bit of a pause before such announcements.

I love it as a piece, but am going to hold off on posting it.

For now, I am going to ruffle my feathers and get back into the short stories I am reading a bit before meeting up with a friend. I have two books for each story. One in each language I would like to read the story in.


Something about me:  If I share a short story with you, it will always be a form of love.

be well; be loved,

k.

(image via fitzpunk tumblr)