I was wrong

And she’s successfully baited me into asking…

About what?

The boss being a lost cause

No, you weren’t

Yes, I was

It's clear from the way he keeps looking at you

(every five seconds)

A dart hits my heart. Hope? Fear? Love? All three? I don’t know. But I don’t have the luxury of indulging in false expectations. Richard has made it clear where he stands. His fear comes before his feelings and that’s not going to change no matter what I do.

He’s probably just mad

We had a big argument

That’s not the face of a “mad man”

Even if he could pass for a younger Jon Hamm

Not in the mood for jokes

I wasn’t joking

The boss isn’t mad

What is he then?

Terrified

That he is for sure.

And how's that better?

He’s terrified because he cares

Doesn’t matter if he doesn’t care

Or if he’s terrified he does care

The bottom line stays the same

We aren’t happening

Give it time

He’ll come around

Have you read the column?

No

Read the column

Whatever

Don’t you have any work to do?

All right Miss Crabby McCranky…

Talk to you later

Mon, June 12 at 9:26 AM @PinkPanther has logged off

I log off for real this time. It took all my willpower not to open that damn column over breakfast this morning, and now Indira is making my resolve crumble. I can read a column. It wouldn’t be like talking to him. It’s only words on the screen. I mean, what harm could come from it? Before I second-guess myself, I click on the magazine’s homepage and open the column.

Someone Once Told Me

by Richard Stratton

Last night I couldn’t rest. Unable to sit still in my apartment with only my thoughts as companions, I went for a walk... and I met Sally.

Sally? Another woman? A sharp pain in my chest makes me swallow as my mouth goes dry with fear. I grab my water bottle and chug a good half before I can bring my eyes back to the screen.

No, my name is not Harry, and this isn’t a romantic story.

Utter relief.

Sally is a woman in her late fifties, who has been living on the streets of Brooklyn for the better part of ten years, and who could easily pass for a seventy–year–old with her white hair and weathered features.

On a regular day, I would’ve passed Sally without even noticing her.

Not last night.

Someone once told me how easily homeless people disappear in the eyes of passers–by, almost becoming invisible. And how surprised I’d be if I stopped for a minute to hear the stories these people have to share.

So I stopped.

I asked Sally what her favorite sandwich was and what she wanted to drink. I bought a meal for both of us and we ate it together sitting on a bench in the park.

And Sally told me her story...