I’ve always been this way, wincing when a barista recognizes me and shouts my order down the line. My nightmare gift is a box of tiny thoughtful gifts collected by an earnest boyfriend. You know, a book I read and loved at fourteen, a handful of all-yellow Jelly Babies, a framed photo of my nieces, and, God forbid, some kind of mixtape! I would say thank you, politely, eyes shining with fear that he would mistake for gratitude, then I’d excuse myself and jump right out of the closest window. I don’t want to be scrutinized like a set of blueprints, I want to be off by myself, alone in my
...more
