My coworker asks if I’m well.

“Well? Not really. Maybe well-ish, I guess?”

“Unacceptable, Sport”

“I’m fine. I’m here. I’m doing my job. The rest of it isn’t germane.”

“Germans? What Germans?”

Our internal phone system isn’t the greatest. And yes, he calls me Sport.

The point in this is that I didn’t lie. I didn’t do that chipper little upswing at the end of the word thing where I reply with, “I’m great!” like I work retail or am auditioning for a Frosted Flakes commercial. Because, you know what? Things are not great and I am not well. I am a stress monster and a sad bastard right now. And copping to that isn’t exactly a walk in the park. It started with losing the words and now we’ve skipped quickly to not eating, with a short stop at the hilarious stigmatic Virgin Mary statue stage where my eyes involuntarily water like I have a killer pollen allergy. And it actually stresses me out even more to pretend that I’m a-okay, even though pretending to be and defaulting to manic pixie dream girl problem solver is not only pretty easy, it’s almost expected now. People like blemish-free MPDGs who preach adventure and opportunity-seizing and will use all their powers of twee perception and persuasion and adorable $%&*# whimsy to coax you down from the emotional ledge and offer you some sweet tea once you’re back on solid ground. But damn, even manic pixie dream girls get the blues, ya know?

So, I’ve started telling the truth. And the truth is humbling and complicated and petty and mortifying and earnest and bold all rolled together and thrown up on your shoes. It’s professional and it’s personal. This is what I’m feeling. This is what I’m thinking. I want this. I don’t want that. I don’t know what I want. Maybe a drink. Maybe a clone. TBD.

It’s not strategic. It’s not a calculated risk. It’s not courageous. It’s not meant to endear me to you. It’s half “what-if” experiment and half  “I truly do not have the energy to play along right now. Raincheck?”

Yes, I acknowledge that it takes a certain talent to blog for two solid years in multiple venues and never give up much of substance about yourself. Part of it is natural reticence, part of it is the tone of this blog, part of it is control meets fear. So, if you know more about me as a person than the barest of character sketches, you’re in rarefied company.

But, for some reason, I can’t lie in this space. I can avoid posting or ply you with fiction, but I can’t stand behind writing that doesn’t represent what I genuinely feel and believe in at that moment. And right now, I feel like a 14-karat mess. And I could whip up a how-to piece on combating feelings such as these (without ever admitting I experience them myself), or I could be honest with you and say that I’m pretty sad and more than a little stressed and that I honestly do not know what will or should happen next. Even know-it-alls get confused.

“Are you well?”

“No, I’m actually not, but thanks for asking.”

I have no time for spare words. Words that get in the way of other words that tell the story I’m looking for. I am ruthless about getting rid of them. Like sweeping my arm across the table and pushing all of the small pieces to the floor. Take the tablecloth with them. Then you can put your palms facedown on the wood and know that you’re starting from somewhere solid.

That’s when I talk the best, think the best. When it’s okay to put my elbows up, drum my fingers against the tabletop and not worry about which fork and how not to spill the water. When it’s okay if I slump down in my chair or lean all the way forward to make sure you’re really paying attention to this. Because this is where it gets important.

Sometimes, people let me. And sometimes, you just know they will never drop that fork, so I don’t push. And sometimes, the table is already cleared when I get there.

Those are the best times.

My job is to make sure the driver doesn’t fall asleep. That’s why I’m here, even though I’m very tired, too. I watch him out of the corner of my eye. Watch where his hands are on the wheel. Watch if they’re slipping or shifting. He doesn’t like small talk, so I don’t try.

The radio only comes to life when we’re waiting at a stoplight. Short soft bursts that aren’t static, but aren’t really anything else either. Sometimes, I think I hear Patsy Cline or Buddy Holly in them, so I pretend we are driving into the past. Each hill is another year. Back, back, back. The roadside signs are faded, so I pretend it’s from decades of baking heat or maybe a great flood that made all their colors bleed together. If I could, I would roll down the window and trail my hand through the night air, but now it’s too dark and the heater is on.

When we reach the highway, we are back in our time. Halfway home. I turn the radio up a little louder to keep us awake. This time, it really is static.

Some things get better as others get worse.

I am better at saying goodbye. When I’m distracted, I mumble it under my breath.  Just to be safe. Just in case I never see you again. I am getting better at using names.  Sometimes, it’s less intimate than “you” and people always want to hear how their name sounds in your voice.  Just to be sure.  I am getting better at biting my tongue. Hard enough to be effective, but not enough to hurt.

I am getting worse at thinking big. I imagine ideas shrinking down to pin pricks and dreams able to fit in one closed fist. I am getting worse at ending the day. This is why I’m standing in the kitchen at midnight, rubbing at my mascara over the sink. I am getting worse at waiting. I sit with my hands knitted together in my lap, my feet swinging back and forth. Now, now, now, I chant.

Better at making up stories, but worse at knowing where to end them. Better at knowing what you want to hear, but worse at remembering to tell you.

I

When he hears where I went to school, he insists on pulling up Facebook on his phone. I don’t like this game. “Do you know Chris?” “Matt?” They sound familiar, I tell him politely. It’s not really a lie; everyone knows a Chris and a Matt. This is enough for him.

II

“You have a lovely head of hair.”

I just smile. He will cut off the end of my sentences and use my name too many times in his. I have already made up my mind. He ends his pitch and squeezes my hand too hard. I put his card in my pocket. I will wash this skirt three times before discovering it again.

III

It’s too hot for a walk and I am not dressed for it. Out of place among bare legs and sundresses. I cross my arms over my chest at every intersection and wonder how many more blocks. Later, I will inspect myself in the low light of the hotel ladies room. I will sweep my necklace aside and stare at the hollow of my neck. It’s red.