But She Never Does.

I write as who I wish I were and then, so as not to be left with the evidence of my
dishonest wishfulness, I toss the paper in someone else's direction. It seems that despite my awkward and always reticent attempts to rid myself of my words, I put them somewhere that they will solidify at least in someone else's mind. Those whom I see at work, those whom I pass by on the street, only know me as a physical body, an image of a man who is to them a silent mystery and who (as a result of being physically nill and void) does not even rile up their curiosity to look up from their newspapers or coffee mugs long enough to see me. I am aware, though, that I give myself away in my stride: ranging from a confident one (on the rare mornings where I have forgotten about myself all together) to a mere dragging of myself behind me. I give myself away in my lunch or my lack of it and in the way I gaze out the office windows at other mysteries below. I always feel I know them, by their tight lips or sharply clutched bags. But I know I never do know anything so my impressions of people fade and leave and as they do I am left with nothing but a faint hint of wishing I were someone as well. If the woman whose desk was nearest to the window would look up at me during these episodes, I would be real because she would really see me. But she never does.