The Fine Line



The game subverts the expectation of a social cue. The neg is the epitome of this disregard. I am smiling as I approach. You expected a friendly word but here is a backhanded compliment. She rejoinders. You assert yourself. “You’re smarter than you look”, wry smile attached. Perhaps she wants to be the juiciest apple in the orchard, is the hope.

You’re at a dinner with some prestigious people. Your wife-to-be tells you to be on your best behaviour. She loves that cocky edge, but there’s a time and a place. You charmingly smile at her. “Ah the nagging has begun already. It’s like we are already married”. She snorts in derision. You pat yourself on the back. Except this isn’t you, it’s a character from a sitcom.

You learned to demonstrate high value and forgot that the truest treasure is sunken deep. You tell her it’s a privilege to be with you from the tallest tower of your solitary keep. Christmas comes around, and she doesn’t check under the tree. She knows what is the prize, all five foot eight of thee.

Leaders don’t need models. Nor Anais, Candice or the rules of the road. They are themselves in the whole and the tactics of talk are forced mates in your brain. The right line is the perfect bandage for a dissonant wound. You don’t want her. You think you do. Which brain is in charge? Neither can say.

What separates you from being a Tinder command prompt if not for the interpreter? Craft a line, be the object. You’re a stone’s throw from lingering like a mantis in an undershirt. Going his own way. He’s just eccentric. Dependent on the tribe. There’s a fine line between reading the room and misreading the cues.

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