2
Editor’s note: This week's
attention!! column
features a fictional story
by MichaelJ. Freeman, a
freshman General Studies
major.
“Put out your hand,” I
told her with a knowing
smirk. “I’ve got something
to give you.” She
presented her open hand
to me as I reached into my
jacket pocket. I drew my
hand back out and moved
it to hers. There was
nothing tangible in my
hand, but I made a
pantomime of passing
something from mine to
hers.
“Take very good care
of this,” I said with a
deadly serious look. “It’s
very valuable and terribly
fragile.” I closed her hand
into a fist about what I had
given her.
“Okay,” she said
nervously, undoubtedly
very worried about my
sanity. “I’ll just keep it
right here,” she said,
shoving her fist into her
pocket; she was obviously
just trying to humor me.
Don’t! I cried to myself,
please don’t not
understand!
“Don’t laugh,” I
philosophized to mask my
panic. “You’ll destroy it as
surely as — as grinding it
beneath your foot.” I
knew as soon as I had said
it just how bad it sounded.
But how else could I say
it? Honesty and directness
were impossible in a
circumstance such as this.
The stare her beautiful
eyes gave showed that
she believed me crazy.
“Why don’t you keep it
yourself?” she suggested
as if to an irrational child,
and extended her fist
toward me. It was the
obvious answer to an
impossible situation; at
least from her perspective.
From mine it was the
ultimate slap in the face.
“I can never take it
back,” I replied.
She, to my horror, still
did not understand. “Oh
well, then," she mocked
me. “I guess I’ll have to
keep it.” Her fist was
rammed back into the
pocket.
The pain caused by her
miscomprehension was
burning all the way to my
soul as she said, “See ya’
later,” and left.
“Yeah, good-bye,” I
replied, hiding my pain. I
couldn’t dump it on her
— it wasn’t her fault. I
hadn’t ever explained to
her what I actually meant.
But then again, how could
I have risked the pain I
would have felt, had she
known the truth and
rejected me anyway?
Maybe I had just tried too
hard to be romantic and
demure. Anyway, for
whatever reason, it had
networked.
As I watched her walk
away, I felt like dving. She
had not directly affronted
me — but she’d treated
my gift like an
indiscernible lump of clay
made by some child or
insane man. Then again, I
guess maybe what I had
given her was about as
important and
understandable, to her, '
under the circumstances.
It had only been my heart.
I started off to my next
class, trying to let the
mundane concerns of my
life blot away my pain and
my feelings. Loneliness
isn’t all that bad; I’ve lived
with it before by following
a simple rule: just don’t
think about it. And while
classes and such were
there to occupy me, I
should be OK.
But what shall I do
when I’m alone once
more tonight?
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