His Name Is Paul

Got a day off. I still get up in the wee hours of the morning. Make my trek over to the gas station to get coffee and, hopefully, see Paul. He's a clerk, friendly in a polite clerk kinda way. Grey hair, skinny, narrow/angular face, soft smokes-too-much gravelly voice. Has the nicest smile ever. That smile can literally make my morning.

I make such a big deal about being uncomfortable around most people, being insular, awkward, about hating social interaction, blah blah, but it's these moments more than anything that keep me from adopting the Misanthrope label. Strange how strangers can do that. Like certain songs.

Or maybe it's not so strange after all. Thanks, Paul.