"There's something nice about you that I don't like," I tell him as we sit on the stone bench outside the school's waiting shed.
"What is it?" he asks as he puffs a huge cloud of smoke into the air as if to send the smoke to the sky to become one with the clouds. He knows better than to puff it in my way. It's not that I dislike it; it's just that I'm blessed with asthma.
"I can't point it out, but I don't mean it negatively."
"Hmmmmmm," he murmurs as he throws the cigarette butt to the ground. He steps on it, pauses for a moment, and then turns to face me. Then he sighs and picks up the cigarette butt to toss in the nearby trash can knowing full well I feel strongly about a person's trash disposal habit.
"See, it's THAT thing about you," I say to him, aware that my demeanor appears annoyed, but on the inside, I am elated—confused and euphoric, but thrilled with his presence.
"I can't point it out," I repeat. He comes to a stop, looks toward the sky, and nods slightly as if contemplating.
"Something nice that you hate, huh? That's, I don't know, odd..." he replies, still gazing at the sky.
"You misunderstand. I don't HATE it, but I also don't like it. Do I actively dislike it? No. It's just that I feel the need to say it because how could I not like something so beautiful, so warm, so nice? Is the other person the problem? Or is it me? Is my inability to like that nice thing an instinctive reaction or a conscious refusal to want something nice for myself out of fear?" I grunt.
"I just can't explain it the way I want to; perhaps it's the word choice." He pats my back as he nods as if to contemplate on his own thoughts about an arguably wonderful thing, which he can't bring himself to like.
"No, I completely understand." A little droplet lands on his eyeglasses, so he removes them and wipes the droplet away. We fall silent for a moment. It starts getting rainy a couple of moments later. We're still sitting on the stone bench, and neither of us has an umbrella.
"I guess we'll be here for a while," I say.
"Do you think the rain is nice?" he asks, sticking another cigarette in his mouth. It starts to rain hard.
