Short Stop: Given the Choice

L.C. Hill

I feel sorry for the man who ends up as my cosmically chosen soulmate. It certainly wouldn’t be someone’s choice without the fates interfering.

I’m scatterbrained, I lose things. I don’t complete thoughts because I’m always on to the next one. No one ever understands what I’m trying to say anyway, so my voice trails off with a dismissive wave of my hand.

I love my dog more than I’ll ever love another human. I find humans rather disappointing.

I don’t put my dishes in the sink, and then not in the dishwasher, and then not in the cabinet. I hate sorting the silverware back into its tray, but it needs to be perfect when I do.

I’m happiest with my headphones on and the complete absence of voices. I talk incessantly because my head is full, and I can’t process anything else unless I say everything. Other days I am too silent.

I’ll stop the beginning of a meal to take a picture of the food. I’ll stop the middle of a conversation to jot something down I will forget. Sometimes I need someone to remind me to jot it down.

I cry happy tears more than sad ones, but I cry a lot. I rant like the devil’s spawn if I drive too far. My patience runs out at the stop sign at the end of my street.

I have no patience with my slipping laptop balanced precariously on a book I was reading, but I won’t move it.

And I find it very difficult to write about good things some days. Most days. But I have run out of room in this one short essay to describe all the reasons someone wouldn’t put up with me given the choice. That must be the worst thing of all.