In you walk with some tall, skinny fellow I presume to be your current boyfriend. As with last time I had seen you come into the dining room perhaps a month ago, when I look, your back is to me and I get the distinct impression you’re ignoring me. I feel determined to confirm or falsify it this time, so once you get up to the counter, I approach you within a comfortable distance and say hey. You do not so much as glance at me.
I know you’re high, I know you’re still taking it, but why you feel ashamed before me is beyond me. Have I judged you before? Never. Its your body, your life. I have my concerns but I respect your personal freedom.
I corner you into saying hello, but you still go out of your way to avoid my eyes, and I leave so as to put an end your obvious discomfort. You’re afraid of looking at me, afraid it might happen again — that I might hear what’s going on between your ears, that I may eavesdrop. You used to be amazed by the whole incident when you still worked here with me. Curious and excited about it. Now you’re avoiding me. Determined to hide something, keep it contained, and that’s your right. I would never intentionally intrude. I hope you know that.
I just hope you’re fucking okay.