=Inquiry into a Mirror=

They are better than me. I mean, other people. I mean, other people are better than me 

at being people. They talk just the way people

are supposed to talk.  
One word after another about the weather,
television, what happened
at work, children, someone breaking up with someone, who's not doing well after the initial
round of treatments.   

When they approach you,

they stretch their lips until they disappear and show their teeth and it looks completely natural. Not like a
monkey in a cage. Not like a disintegrating corpse. 
I mean, everyone agrees they are doing it right. 
They say “hello.” 
Then they say  did you hear, 
isn't it a shame, can you believe it.

It’s the way it’s supposed to be. 

I mean, other people are the way people 
are supposed to be. 
It's a mystery to me, that’s what they are. 
How did they learn this complicated thing? 

I mean, this being-people thing? 
They are so much better than me at being people. 
How did it happen? How did they get so far ahead of me? Where did they learn? When? 
They laugh just like they do

on television when someone does something

that isn’t too funny. When something sad happens, 
they open their eyes wide and furrow 
their brows

and show a very deep concern and everyone
knows they're sad about someone's

ovarian cysts or flooded basement. 
I find it difficult. 
I mean, I find it difficult to say anything. 
I stand there, as if stumped. 
When I say “I’m sorry” it sounds like 
someone asking “Would you like some salt?” 
Other people

are better at walking down the street. 
They do it effortlessly. 
They look around themselves 
as if they were seeing things 
that really interested them. 

I have to think “left-right-left-right.” 
I mean, otherwise I'll fall flat on my face 
like my shoelaces were tied. 
When other people see other people
they know, for instance, they do a complex facial yoga
that is beyond me. 
I mean,  if I meet people unexpectedly
I look up like someone's interrupted me 
in the toilet.   
Just in case, I have to write crib notes
 on the inside of my wrists 
exactly where you might cut them. 
I write notes to remember: “Smile. Nod. Hello. 
Take care. How are you?” 

Okay, I’m exaggerating. 
No I’m not. 
Yes I am. 
Still other people are better than me

at being people. 

It comes naturally to them, 
as if they’ve been doing it their whole lives,

as if that’s what they really are. 

I watch their faces closely for signs of tension. 
For cracks. 

When I’m around people I feel like I’m going to blow apart in a thousand pieces. 

Like something awful is going to 

emerge from the fragile egg that I am. 
I jerk around like a marionette. 

But other people. I mean, other people seem so sincere. 
So natural, 
so at ease. Like seals in the water.

How do they do it? When someone shows them a baby picture they go “Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh!” 
right on cue like it's the first time no matter how many times 
it's been done before. 

I stand there

like someone has presented me a complex problem

involving differential equations. 

Everyone is better than me at being people. I saw a show once about a serial killer. 

He had a thousand friends. Even in jail, other people still couldn’t help liking him. They said, “He was a really nice guy, except for the serial killing thing.” 
Dozens of women sent him marriage proposals.
Dozens!

What I mean is other people can be people 
without any effort at all. It’s like they were born being people. 

What would it be like, I wonder, to be one of these other people? How does one do it? Is it too late, surely it’s already too late, but just imagine it's not. I mean, not too late to become other people. 

Let’s say I could. 

If I could become other people would I scare myself the way other people scare me now?

 Would I even recognize myself and if so would I walk right by me without a word pretending I didn't recognize me because I'm just too damn weird
even for other people? 
Would I glance quickly at my wrist
 and read in the same dull voice
 I have now “Hello? How are you?” 

Would I smile and nod? Would I say “Take care”? Would I  mean it? I mean, would I feel any sympathy for me at all?

If so,
which me would I be when I did?
I mean, of course it's too late,
but what if?
I don't answer. I just stare back.
I mean, it's embarrassing enough
even to have to ask.
I mean, I have nothing written on my wrist,
not so much as a scar.