His words come on the page before me, an anxious burst of queries, questions, wanting to “get to know you,” wanting to “be close to you,” asking a series of “vanilla questions,” so he says as he dodges complaints. He is sly, and I think of how the quick brown fox jumped... over? What?
He would know. He tells me, “I went to an Ivy League school, so I know everything.” I laugh at how ridiculous he is. He smiles at my laugh. He thinks I have approved.
If not questions, the words appear praises, the shrapnel turned to princesses dancing around my vision in his head. The idea of me romanticized to me, me who does not need nor want nor desire a burning desire for myself. I do not see flattery. Perhaps I only wish I did.
The thing about textual conversations is that you can see them, muse over the words, misinterpret all meanings and hear no tones. You can take your time responding. You do not need to respond. You can be a jester in my court, or make me the fool in yours.
His defenses are weak and frustrating, the child claiming not to have eaten the cookie that is clearly crumbled in his shirt folds, chocolate smeared on his face. Pointing out the obvious only makes things worse.
His claims not to understand are a feeble attempt at innocence and a successful attempt at manipulation. I am tired. I have forests to roam and hunters to dodge and a pedestal to get comfortable upon and I do not have time to participate in certain dialogues I find myself part of, caught between. I do not have time to grant wishes or respond with earnest inquiries about him - I want not to learn more than I need to know.
I am not sorry I do not know him. He went to an Ivy League school and knows everything but me.