Six months ago at the bus stop

Six months ago at the bus stop

I told a man his painting was beautiful.

I meant it. I wasn't trying to be kind.

I was being honest.

His face did something I couldn't read.

A flash of something. Gratitude maybe.

Or the kind of discomfort that comes from

being seen by someone you don't know.

He said thank you and looked away.

I've replayed it a thousand times.

The exact angle of my words.

Whether I sounded desperate.

Whether he thought I was hitting on him.

Whether I ruined something by opening my mouth.

Yesterday a woman at a coffee shop ordered a drink

and something in her voice brought it all back—

this six-month weight I've been carrying.

This small thing I said to a stranger

that became the largest thing I think about.

I should have just walked past.

Should have kept it inside.

Instead I spoke and now I'm haunted by

the possibility that he's never thought about it again,

that I gave him nothing,

that I gave myself this instead—

this constant rewinding,

this inability to believe that sometimes

a kind thing is just a kind thing.