5/8/13

A pretty stranger stops on the street, as I'm smoking a shameful cigarette.

Every day she stops to ask a stranger on the street to tell her the deepest secret they're willing to share. And she warns me not to tell her it's smoking cigarettes.

I'm full to the brim of deep secrets I'm trying to admit to myself - to sift out a nugget of clarity somewhere within the shame, amidst the self-accusations, amongst the lies I've been telling myself that make it easier to get out of bed in the morning, but harder to sleep at night.

Still, I'm caught like a Peeping Tom in the bushes, unzipped and startled.

I could say my deepest secret is that I don't see any evidence that I'm capable of love. Or that I've probably made the biggest mistake of my life, pushing away my girlfriend of 12 years. Or that I think I started pushing her away when we stopped having sex, 5 years ago. Or that I stopped being attracted to her shortly after that. Or that I almost cheated on her once, but couldn't even commit to that. Or that I actually feel relief when I think that once this is all over, all I have to worry about is myself again.

Instead I tell this pretty stranger that I wish I'd had more coffee. And that I can't help her. And when she asks if I'm sure, I nod.

My biggest secret is that I think she was a gift sent by the universe to let me confess my sins.

And I was too afraid to accept it.