One Question

August sixth. I showed Simone what I wrote.

Not the post as published, the draft. The messy one, the one I wrote two Saturdays ago with my coffee getting cold and the apartment to myself, where I basically interviewed both versions of the decision and tried to catch which one I already believed. I didn't send it to her. I waited until Tuesday's climbing session and when we were sitting on the bench unlacing our shoes I said I had written about the supervisor thing and asked if she wanted to read it. She said yes the way she says yes to things, which is without fanfare.

Today she came over. I made coffee. She sat down and I turned the laptop toward her. The post took maybe four minutes to read. I kept my hands around my mug and looked out the window at nothing in particular, because watching someone read your writing is its own specific kind of exposure, not bad, just specific. I had been bracing for her to respond with opinions. She has opinions. They are usually useful. But instead she set the laptop back toward me and asked one question, and the question was not about the money, and it was not about the schedule, and it was not the question I would have asked myself.

Simone reading it. The pause before the one thing.

I'm not going to write the question here. Not yet. But I've been sitting with it for a few hours now and I think the reason it landed is that it was smaller than advice. It was more like, here is the thing I noticed that you seemed to be talking around. And then she picked up her coffee and we talked about something else entirely, and she left around noon, and I've been at this table since then, which is maybe its own kind of answer.

After. The laptop closed. The thing said.

The draft is still open. I haven't changed anything yet.