We read people wrong. We leave the light on for people who prefer the dark. We keep our ears glued to the door and jump when we finally hear a knock, only to open it and find the wrong person on the other side. Often enough, we let them in anyway. We kick them out and bar the doors, turn off the lights, no better than bitter old men on Halloween. We end up with the notion that love is some form of trickery.
Inevitably, there comes a day when one’s mouth aches for something sweet, and we tear the bars off the door, open it wide, turn on the lights until the space is more hospital than house. We invite someone else in. They leave of their own accord. We close the door, lock it just to be safe. We dim the lights comfortably.
I know now there is no use in barring it. Hope will always weasel its way in.
unpleasant conversations 