There was a girl in my class once that took an interest in me. We sat at Starbucks and talked for a few. She found my Youtube that night and the next day she turned around in her chair and told me I was funny. I’m never really sure what to say to that, other than a semi-awkward “Thanks!”
“I hope I can get to know the real you,” she said with persistence.
“What do you mean?”
“The real you,” she repeated, like that helped clarify anything for me.
The real me? Like she wants me to tell her jokes? I can’t perform on the spot; I’m a one trick pony. I’m like a seal that barks on command when it sees fish. Don’t expect a raging Gyrados when I’m a flopping Magickarp. Right now as I type, I’m watching a co-worker rinse his topple ware. He had pasta with what smells like tomato soup for lunch.
Who’s the ‘real’ me? I mean, I’m just myself. Or I try to be. She just doesn’t get me.
Clumps of dry grass poke out from the pavement. Fog’s settled in. The brick pavement’s dark after rain; the air feels cold and constricting. I watch red hospital lights blink in the distance.