Recoil

Small towns can be rough. Especially when you've fucked up and rumors abound. Even years later, somehow you're still a marked man. I am getting used to the peculiar phenomenon I like to call the "slow recoil." You meet someone, they seem to enjoy meeting you, then, maybe at the end of the conversation, something flicks on in their eyes--a look of surprised recognition--then, almost as quickly, the light goes out. And the next time you see them, there's no connection whatsoever—maybe a smile or a few words, but you can see that they have placed you, remembered what they heard about you, and have decided to leave you alone. I don't blame them, really, though it disappoints. You got to do what you got to do. Nevertheless, it's a brutally subtle exchange that does quiet damage to the heart.