My coworker comes up to me while I’m sitting in the car. He’s got a plastic bowl of potato salad his mom made, and the sky is a rich, lazy blue around him.
He asks me all kinds of questions–where I live, what I do, if I still write.
“What about personal life. Are you seeing anyone?”
I stumble for an answer. Somewhere bouncing between no, kind of, I don’t know.
Why?, he asks.
People always move too fast with me. My insides don’t match my outsides, and people don’t always understand that or expect that. I move very slowly.
What’s slow for you, he asked.
I need to know you as a friend or have worked with you. Otherwise, it’s hard to get close.