It feels like a little adventure, sitting in my dim-lit living room, hiding, out of reach of all but my caring WordPress friends in distant climes.
My neighbours thought I’d gone away, but now they’re not so sure. Maybe they can see a little light, but I don’t care.
I hear them outside, subdued by uncertainty and a trace of guilt.
Someone’s knocking on my door. I sense their bated breath as they listen for a clue to my presence.
There’s a second knock, and then a third.
Maybe they heard my kettle; well, let them wonder.
I don’t have to answer to those who expect me to listen to everyday tales I’ve already heard several times this week;
those who must be the centre of attention even when they have nothing to say;
those who are so blinded by ego or whatever makes them that way that they have no time to see my pain, or the fear writ clear across my face;
those who break in when I try to speak; greedily competing, citing swollen feet, headaches, self-made, half-invented, grossly exaggerated health scares to which I listen each evening.
This terrifying week, it would have been nice if someone had noticed me, instead of looking for a reflection of themself, and reached out to help.
The other night I described a terrifying image which had flashed across my vision. One of my erstwhile friends told me not to be so stupid, and without a pause, asked me how to delete a message from his phone.
All I could hear was him saying “Me me me.”
I stood up and said I had things to do, and without another word, I walked indoors.
He must have noticed I was offended, because yesterday he apologised. It was too late; it’s happened too many times over the past few days, and he would not have troubled himself if I hadn’t displayed my anger.
I hear another knock on my door.
I ignore it.
I prefer to spend the evening with you, my true friends; my loyal, supportive, WordPress friends.
©Jane Paterson Basil