We are as many stories as we are days. But some days shine brighter, that sheen of memory made apart, that something other beyond the pale of blending together days. Some days, I mean, stick their heads up.

But it is the blending together days that make the life story, the back and forth of eras.

It is difficult to remain intentionally unconscious of the man standing there watching you on the periphery of your vision, the place where you are exercising much conscious effort not to look. He called out as you pulled in, and you, off-guard, looked up and smiled before you recognized the nature of his "hello, laadiesss", drawn out like that. And now you're pretending with mighty effort that there is a wall in place through which he cannot reach you, that you and he are not both aware of the fact that your window is down and he is standing right there, still trying to get your attention. Because that's your best weapon, to bend your head down and look like you are too absorbed in your book to notice anything else, to assert a reality that isn't true, so confidently that he will be forced to live in it. Even as he forces you to live in a reality where your best defense is to turn your face (as though deferentially) down.