Do I Know You

Do I know you? No. You don’t know me. How can you when I don’t know myself? You know that I’m wearing glasses and have a pimple on my cheek. You know that I smile at the end of your sentences but don’t know that I’m not really listening, only hearing your pauses. You know that I give a thumbs-up when you approve of something you just said that you thought was profound, but you don’t know that I was just following your lead. You don’t know how much I hate parties because of the social pressure of trying to connect with someone through all the noise and provide the right social cues based on what I’m observing and not what I’m learning about you since small talk holds no substance. You don’t know that while I nod at your empty statements, I’m looking to escape around that corner or down that hallway or during your sigh. But most importantly, you don’t know how much I long to know you, but in some other place, a quieter, softer place, a place less pretentious outside this speed-dating venue. You don’t know that I’d love to know you so that I can better know myself. You ask, ‘Should we get together again?’ And I say, ‘Why?’ You shrug, your smile crooked and unsure. ‘I want to know you better.’ I smile. Nod. Say, ‘So do I,’ and wonder if you know who I’m talking about.