In hindsight, this story belongs over here…
“I hate it when you do that. I can’t read you.”
“What does it matter? I had nothing to contribute.”
“But it always happens and I don’t like it,” she said. “It shuts me out.”
“Out of where? If it helps, I’m not doing anything in particular but I feel kind of weird.” The fleeting image of a football flies through my mind towards invisible goalposts. “I suppose it’s a response to what you’re doing.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“OK. A response to what you’re trying to do…?”
“See? I hate it when you’re like this.”
The anticipation of arriving at the section with the European trees, a favourite place to practice, drops us into silence. She knows what kind of mood overtakes me along this section of the path. The weird feeling is still there but it doesn’t intrude so much. I’m kind of delighted by it, regardless…
Dominant…
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Go Home, You Black Bitch 