The Gauntlet
by Jonathan Quince
Thursday, May 12, 2005 11:17:07
People are trouble. You are trouble from the moment I see you. If you walk away from me, attached further to me in life only by your later regrets, that is a gift to me; though if you pass the test, the gift is greater still. Either way, I must know you well; so to the test you shall be put.
Live in a person’s house for forty years of peace, and you may yet still not know him. Live in a person’s mind, and you will know him to the core. I must read you, little duckling, and find the real you. ’Tis imperative that I do not waste forty years with a fake.
I map a mind upon seeing it, and yours is no different: I know your red flags; I know your sensitive points. I will raise them and poke them, sometimes early, sometimes later on; and when all is said and done with your flowery declarings of affection, I will see if you run away. I will do you no harm, be assured; but I will at least discomfit you, burden you, push your buttons to test your resolve.
If you are wary, I’ll get too close too fast; if you crave stability, I’ll expose a spicy quirk of craziness. If you are a party girl, I will be staid; if you are reserved, I’ll be lewd. I will not speak lies or put on an act; rather, I will expose differing facets of myself at the worst possible times, in and out of context. I will presume and fuck up and blithely put my foot in my mouth until I know exactly how deeply you see into me (or how your eyes bounce only off the surface).
It is a test tailor-made for you, darling. And exposing it to you is merely another test. When my private life is on the line, the games are worth every wearying moment; for mistrusting as I am, I know that life is too precious to be a game.
It is a joy to have people. But with every joy comes a burden; and I am just a very selfish man.