LINES ON OUR FACES @sunneburn
When she spots him by the venue curbside, her first instinct is to turn the other way.
Not out of hard feelings, rhyme or reason. All matters to do with one's pride are strictly, embarrassingly personal. To revel in that, alone or let alone with the likes of him evokes all sorts of things. Slogging through browned slush in the dead of January. Thin, coiled discomfort at the pit of her stomach. A sensation sickeningly close to nausea, but not quite there.
She looks up at the evening sky, as if a good excuse to pivot on her heel and forget about it altogether will be found between the cascading snowflakes or the barren overhang of the tree branches. After a long minute, her head falls back with a sigh.
There’s a score to be settled here—though not in the way most think. Most believe in altruism being commonplace, at no additional cost. Most also don’t balance a checkbook of unsolicited deeds, as a result.
And then there’s Mirae. With her head counts, tally marks, and a never-ending laundry list of every possible gesture, grudge, and grievance under the sun. Playing God (in this economy?) has never done anyone favors, and yet she carries on this poor man’s imitation in full stride.
“It’s only 11,” a glance at her lockscreen confirms the time, then to the man now standing a couple feet away from her. “This is a first.” The dry pull of her tone suggests something purely observational. Matter of fact. Along with, “I’m headed the same way. Unless your plan here is to freeze to death, then.” A light shrug to complete the thought, as if to imply that sort of misfortune is beyond her. “That’s that.”