A weird thing happened on my way home from work today.
I had just pulled up to a stop light and, drumming my fingers on the wheel and singing along to some Bob Seger, looked over into the car on my right (we’ve established that I am a creep who does this). I noticed the driver of the car was a woman in her early thirties who had a lovely blonde A-line bob. She was also visibly crying.
I stared at her, wondering what could have happened to make her so sad. She must have noticed my stare because she turned her head and looked back at me. And I’m not sure why I did this, but I smiled at her, touched my fingers to my lips, and leaned over to press them to the passenger side window. A moment passed, then she pressed her fingers to her lips and then pressed them to her window. She gave me a little smile, then the light changed and she beared to the right while I kept going straight to the highway.
I really don’t have anything to say, but sometimes the littlest gestures of kindness can make a whole lot of difference.
You’d hated him on first sight; a visceral, immediate reaction born out of a deep-seated sense of guilt and inadequacy. The moment he’d come through that Void in a Dream Bubble, right after Drunk-Rose, the John/Jade Lovechild, and Betty Crocker, wearing that stupid pink outfit and those mockingly familiar shades, you’d knew who he was. And more importantly, who he wasn’t.
He’d looked at you with an impassive expression that rivaled your own. You spoke at the same time, asking the same question, with the same sense of wary hope that disgusted you, even at the time. “Bro?”
That was all you needed to hear. This imposter wasn’t who you needed him to be, just a slightly distorted mirror image that served only to remind you of your own failure and loss. Your expression grew hard then, jaw tightening in anger, and when you spoke next it was with a careful disdain. Unfortunately, he seemed to have mastered the tone as well, because two voices spoke the same words: “You’re not my brother.”