From our opposite corners

we approached each other,

one degree less than tentatively.

I watched him displace the air that

sat between us, a gentle leave-taking.

“Do you know about the continuum?” he

asked quietly. "My brain isn't

made just like yours. So, I

can't feel at ease in this setting.

I like problems. Science. Math. I

can do those. I can feel those, see them,

you know? With you I may never

feel relaxed. But, I can try. I want to.”

(I could tell this was a declaration he

had to state early, so that I might

run off before I breached his life at all,

even on the periphery. He

was deciding as well, determining 

my intentions, my welcome.)

“I think I'm probably not on the

spectrum,” I said, knowing I had

not even considered it before. My face

expressed my sincere inner reflection as I

thought about the assorted traits we each

form to make sense of the world, to

make a new friend. I watched him stroke his

wrist. The circular motions of his fingertip

soothed us both.

“Maybe I could do this like it’s a

problem. A problem I can solve,” he

said. “Do what?” I asked.

“Know you. Be your friend.”

We talked. He asked small questions that

pined for large answers full of heart and

gentle contemplation. Each time he

turned away before I responded and he

looked intently at the table, skirting my

eyes. Yet when I started to answer, he

came back. His head tilted downwardly,

but his eyes reached up to mine.

I held fixed on him with a tenderness 

that came from somewhere new to

me, somewhere inside, untethered,

supple and benevolent, somewhere

fiercely protected and secluded.

I offered him that softness, my finger on his

wrist, outlining his then.