tell me something

10 Feb

When I reach that point in my work day where I Just Can’t, I sip my tea, fill another cup and sip some more, turn up my Mellow Jamz playlist, and try to get REAL with old friends through text messages I might not have sent if I didn’t know my Myers-Briggs personality type is happiest when she’s making it weird for everyone else. Tell me why we don’t talk anymore. Can I help you be less sad? Let’s be close.

Of the six or seven really annoying things I know I do to Daniel, the one I do pretty much every night anyway is just before bed when he’s reaching to turn off our Christmas lights, when I pull him back toward me and position his face so that his eyes are directly across mine, and say, “Tell me something.” And I don’t mean, tell me what you think about tiny houses or Kristen Stewart, I mean, tell me something good. Something you feel or felt or something that means, I don’t know, s o m e t h i n g. And if he can’t come up with anything then, I think I can shake a story loose if I make it a little more specific. “Tell me something you don’t want to tell me” or “something you’ve forgotten,” which makes perfect sense to only me. He told me the story about the time he ate so much pizza he threw up. That’s one of my favorites. Even if he thinks it’s just a dumb story, it’s really something to me. Or the one where he and a girl he liked skipped school on his birthday to watch the Eddie Aikau surf contest on the North Shore. I love that he has that. Pieces of him are tucked away in memories with other people, moments I’ll never see or understand, moments that shaped him into the man I know so well, but will never quite completely.


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