What I See When I Don’t See You

When I introduce myself to people, assuming I have the presence of mind, to introduce myself, I say I am a poet, cook, and father- in reverse order.
I want folks to know I am a writer, that is the prism through which I see things. I might not remember your name at first, but I’ll remember every word you say, and how you say it. You have become I character in my mind, before I see you as a person. Forgive me. You will become a person in time, once you say or do something out of character.
That is out of the character I am creating of you in the matrix of my mind. The one I am simultaneously in conversation with as I talk with you. Borrowing your idiom, gestures, the tone of your speech, and merrily doing my bidding, until you do something unedited, unscripted, and then, bless you, I’ll see you for the first time.

Sometimes it happens in a moment, in the same breath or evening I encounter you, sometimes it takes a bit of time. I once lived with a woman for years before she stepped out of labyrinth in which I had lovingly enslaved her and into the real world.

I realize this is an asshole thing for me to do to you, having just met and all. I wish I wouldn’t do. I am trying to be more, or maybe less mindful. More present.

So if you see me, writing dialogue for you; if I get that far away look in my eyes, feel free to say something shocking, to force my full attention. To assert your true self.

Or, failing that, slap me like Cher via Nicolas Cage in Moonstruck and shout:
“Snap outta it!”