There's a special class of people, gathered into a clump, who seem friendly and happy, yet scorn each other and others outside; unique, but conform to each other, who giggle and chatter about things--about cruises and clothing and couples--at lunch. They are eager and anxious for new colleagues (not friends), but don't deign to speak of thoughts or beliefs, of hopes or of dreams, the ephemeral things which stay in the mind. They don't think of solitude, or of saying what they wish to say, or of bouncing about with no dignity. Or if they do, there's no one to know; each guarding her thoughts against the other, hidden from light of day. Are they friends? That's not for me to say, but I know that something, some small thing, seems to be missing.
Spring '99
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