On Meeting People

By D. Salazar

I don’t really like you.

It makes me feel sad and all but, really, I don’t like you. Everything about you makes me nervous. Your proximity is a disturbance in the force. It’s not your fault of course, nor should you care what it is that I, or anyone else, think about you. It’s just that… forgive my sincerity… I really don’t like you.

You see, meeting people is like staring at a mirror. There’s always that small tinge of fear, apprehension, before you look at it. If you stumble unexpectedly across one, you’ll be scared; if it’s dark, you’ll be really scared. That’s the way it works with people. Facing one, having that person stare at you in the eye, worse even, conversing…
I envy those who can do it so easily.

As I watch you in the distance you may seem interesting. There’s a glow about you, like an aura, a colorful haze that I find really pretty. I watch you perform small tasks and think “wow, that is a cute person”.
But then, as expected, I come closer. A few steps further and I can already find some aesthetic mistakes, pimples, bags under the eyes, a mismatched shirt, shitty nails… Anything, your beauty is now imperfect –not that it is your fault, it’s just who you are, who we all are- and then, suddenly, I start wishing I hadn’t come closer. But then again, I know it’s impossible for me not to come any closer whenever I think “oh, how cute is this person”. So I did come close and the beauty I had seen about you fades a little.

And now I’m there, I can either go back and remember how pretty you used to be before I came closer, or I can go even further and see what you are really like.
I hate being stuck in the middle.

So we talk, and I am so aware of the reasons behind your words, the wording of your phrases; I can see your discomfort so clearly. I can see flashes of your past in the tones you used, things you would only remember in front of a professional; you allow me into your head a little.

But I don’t really like you, maybe because I really don’t like myself. You’re especially annoying if we start talking about yourself, if I take an interest. Because, obviously, once I couldn’t stop and turn around instead of coming closer, knowing that it would result in me not liking you, once I’m this close I must dwell on you, and delve in some dark cavities. I believe that’s the definition of a sadist?

I write, again, without knowing.

What I do know is that I don’t like you, unless you are at a safe distance from me. Because if I start delving in your armor I can find holes filled with poison, or bugs. I can cut myself on your sharp edges; I can even get sucked into that huge emptiness inside you.

I am a small thing. You represent a huge danger.

Maybe that’s why I don’t really like you.