I usually don’t tell people. I learned it only makes them quiet, their eyes shifting as if they don’t know what to think or say. As if they want to escape.
This time, though, his eyes got wider, not in surprise, it seemed, not in awe, but in recognition. His lips puffed out a bit and his hand reached across the table and covered mine. I didn’t move it away. “Do you mind if I tell you something in the same vein?” he asked.
My throat became dry but I managed a scratchy “Yes, please do.”
This was the first time we met and there was a startling intimacy. His brown hair, longish so it fell across his high forehead, complimented his brown leather jacket, stubble over his concave cheeks, sunken almost, emphasizing his square chin. There seemed to be a carelessness about his looks. But not his eyes. They were intensely brown, like a pit bull. But I wasn’t afraid.
He swallowed loudly, like he was gulping air. And told me of his time in Afghanistan. How it changed him. I’m a pacifist so the blood and gore, the viciousness, the uselessness of war cut like knives into my core and I felt deflated.
When he finished, his eyes were sad. I forced myself to meet his gaze, my own eyes blue in color and feeling. I swallowed hard. It seemed my turn to confess something deep, meaningful, hurtful. But I didn’t want to. Now it seemed my own semi-tragic life (as I called it) seemed like pennies compared to his hundreds of dollars of painful, tragic memories.
“What do you think?’ he asked, his eyes pleading.
“I think you win,” I said and immediately regretted saying it. He pulled his hand from mine,
“I’m sorry,” I said; “But I can’t conceive of that, can’t fathom it, can’t relate.” It was blunt and my saying it shocked me. I, who some would say thrived on sadness.
He got up, glanced once at me, and left. His brown ponytail swinging against his jacket. I watched him leave and I suddenly felt depleted, poor, as if I’d lost my wallet with all my money and identity in it. I felt empty and a question rose from somewhere deep inside, “who am I really?”
Bojinka Bishop has been passionate about the written word and stories since she was 10. After a career as a PR writer and professor at the Scripps School of Journalism (Ohio U), she is concentrating on flash fiction. She loves this genre – in which a brief scene can tell a life’s story.
Very intriguing story!
I wanted to take a moment to share my thoughts. I found myself reflecting on the way you captured such a raw and intense emotional exchange between the two characters. There’s a quiet intimacy in their interaction that feels incredibly authentic, and you painted that connection so vividly.
What stood out to me most was the way you explored the tension between vulnerability and emotional distance.
Enjoyed the read! Thank you for sharing!
Bojinka has led us to ask ourselves the same question. Discovering our honest and true self propels us to create an authentic and personally courageous life.
What an intense story. So much depth out of so few words!
I read Bojinka Bishop’s story shortly after having a long and difficult conversation with one of my closest friends. He needed to share his pain with me. He needed to disclose the tragedy his life has become. This allowed me to grasp the emotional impact of Bojinka’s comparison of her pennies of suffering contrasted with her friend’s hundreds of dollars of despair. Speechless, I felt the same difficulty relating to my friend’s misfortune, the same emptiness. It is amazing how a very short story, superbly written like Bojinka’s, can capture the essence of human emotions and force the reader to think more deeply about life’s profound questions.
We Traded Confidences Like Currency by Bojinka Bishop kept me engaged; hanging on the words and each metaphor that painted a more vivid picture. Very well-written and enjoyable in its short length! Thank you for sharing.
Well, this little story packed a punch!