The thing about last week, about last Tuesday and the boundary challenged fellow in the coffee shop, is that it was an unusual day already. No. That’s too dramatic.
But there was a tiny incident. I believe I said no one ever hits on me. And this is true. I mean, really.
But earlier that same day, I was putting gas in my car, when a man came over to me and handed me a business card. “Hello, ma’am,” he said. “I do tree removal.” The large, well-cared for truck was parked nearby. Before he could explain more, I said, “Oh well, I live in an apartment, so it wouldn’t be of much use to me.”
He looked disappointed, but he smiled. “All right, then.”
“I know people with houses though. Tell you what–I’ll keep the card and pass it on,” I said.
“Thank you.” He brightened. “And I’m single,” he said.
I laughed. “Ah. But I’m not.”
We both laughed. He wished me a good day and he went on his way, and I finished pumping gas.
Why tell a story? Why tell this story and not that story? To look smart, good, kind, better?
After this exchange at the gas station, I got in my car, and I thought–wow, someone hit on me…wait…maybe not…maybe I misunderstood. Oh well. That’s okay.
But why tell the story at all? What stories are we supposed to tell and why do we tell them? A small insignificant story…
What stories are we supposed to be telling?