"Why Do All Your Stories. . . ."

(Originally Posted Saturday, May 11, 2013)

One does not wish to be indiscreet, but one does wish to be a writer, and therein lies a problem--which I have attempted to overcome by anonymity.  But the internet, that lovely octopus, doesn't love it.  "Something there is that does not love a wall," says Robert Frost.  Mystery solved.  It is the internet. 

So much happened last night that fills me, though, with the urge to tell, that entreats me to ponder.  I want to tell you of my exploits, to confess fears. . . no. . . I wish to tell me in front of you. 

"Why are you always the hero in your stories?" 

Ouch.  It was the beginning of the end.  Why was I even talking at all.  I'm a listener, but with her, for some idiot reason, I desired to tell.  Perhaps I thought her eyes were. . . imploring.  They were the prettiest eyes. 

"You tell a story," I said.  "Let's see how that goes." 

She was right, of course.  I wanted her to like me.  I wasn't telling stories about sulking around the house alone weekend after weekend.  I was reaching back looking for my best stuff. 

But she wouldn't tell a story. 

Perhaps you could.  You could tell a story about your daughter or your dog or your aunt Tilde, nice stories about golf resorts or fabulous restaurants. 

If she had, of course, I would have placed some equally hurtful complaint. 

But this is not the story I want to tell, you see.  It is the other part, the part where I was explaining how I live through an existential philosophy. . . .

She lay her finger upon my lips.

"Shhh." 

And then what happens next. 

But I can't chance it.  And so I will have to live with the confusion and the bliss and save the details for some heroic telling sometime hence. 

But I am heroic, though, goddamnit.  I live my life to be so. 

Have I told you?