“Everything has a story!” she said, cutting into my words about a favorite item from a mutual friend and continuing on with her diatribe I had already heard too many times. I felt my story’s value lessened by her sharp words and withdrew quietly.
Yes, everything does have a story, but what are we but our stories. If mine have less value does that mean I have less value?
It wasn’t the first time such a statement had come from her mouth and I was silently wondering at the possible outcome of this newfound friendship. The first time it happened I had been listening, in a very tired state, of her childhood stories and neighbors I would never have opportunity to meet. I nodded appropriately on occasion and attempted to ask questions. Apparently I had little to offer that contributed to the conversation for she seldom acknowledged my responses.
I took a short lull in the one sided conversation to start a story about an occurrence that related to the last one she told. Part way through she interjected with a brusk “Is there even a point to this?” At which I turned, smiled and as sweetly as I could said, “Maybe not.” Maybe there is no point in any of this I thought to myself. Maybe not. I was overcome with the desire to bolt at that moment, but was tired and it was late and I was relatively comfortable staying put for the night. So I did.
During several visits over the next few weeks her story was much the same. Her issues, her aches and pains, her day to day difficulties, her baggage, her routine, her, her, her. My input often interrupted and negated, she laughed off my attempts to inject my own thoughts and ideas into our activities. I felt the friendship slipping through my fingers, saturating an already stained carpet full of holes.
Lastly, a crisis on my part brought an offer of assist from her and I accepted. Apparently I didn’t say thank you enough or listen intently enough to the same tired stories or grovel deeply enough in gratitude, and she flew off the handle at my mental exhaustion before she was done with me. There was no empathy on her part, only greed for more satisfaction, greed for more attention and growing anger mixed with a loud voice cutting through my oasis of home.
I remained calm and lowered my voice in an attempt to instill stability under the heated darts of her voice, but no matter how I replied it was an incorrect vocalization. I touched her hand too soon … too late … not enough.
With relief I allowed her to carry out the threats of leaving, hoping I might get a few hours sleep before morning came. Her vehicle pulled away, I turned off the light and breathed a sigh of relief. I spent the next hour listening to the soft rain, the tree frogs, the cacophony of silence, and knew I had just escaped the wrath of insanity.
The next day a casual breezy voice mail told me she had arrived home safe and sound and to call sometime.
Probably not. Vanilla. Who needs it.
