social dystrophy

As I opened the door the rain ripped its way into the opened crevasse. I sealed it shut and wrapped my coat around myself, the zipper had broken months before. The black cotton pressed close to my skin. I again challenged the door to ajar itself and the rain again slithered onto the pressed wooden planks adourning the floor.
The treacherous weather seized me-carried me. I let it.
I crept thru the street-kept to one side by the socializing ideal. Do not cross unless necessary. If a dark man is coming towards you, cross.
I am the dark man.
A see thru the haze of fog and sleet like rain the dense shape of a body. Moving forward thru the deep oceanic breeze. I crossed.
To save pauper the trouble.
Reaching for the lamp is much harder in the light than the dark.
I made an example of myself-forcing my back straight and pulling my hands out the pockets of my pants-would they fear?
Eye contact-the retina displays discomfort-I waive to the opposite side.
First impressions destroy everything we’ve been bulidling our whole lives in one milisecond-one fearful glance and the reputation is shot-the popularity dwindles.
Is it worth the fight? To have all to enjoy your comapy? Must I strive for belonging in a world of sectional comfort? A world of social dystrophy?
No.
I gave that up. There is no use-I have my acuaintances I have my fair share of handshakes and back slaps-I do the drills- I smile-I wink. People believe me to be personable- no use in discouraging the thoughts.
I’ve become socially catatonic. But I need not fret-there will be no change in any others-all are doomed to a similar fate.
I reach my destination. I whirl my soggy hair in the winter fog-the damp hair slaps into my eyes. I wipe it from my eyes. I seem to gather my whits-but I push thru the door. Marie pulls the door open.
-yer here, you made it...you walked in the rain?
-yes, the car was repoed on Saturday.
-oh that’s awful-I have my car- I can pick you up for work
-I can walk
-no, really, its no trouble...
-I can walk
-treat me to a tune, will you?
I shuffle to the piano. At least 30 years old, its piercing off key tune burns.
I push from the piano-
-Marie, we’re leaving here.
-for lunch?
-no were travelling to another state. Or country. Or somethin, I can’t take the pressure of this town anymore. You must drive us, my car is gone.