Empathy (or Lack Thereof)

by Veronica Habashy

​

It’s raining and we’re

outside. You tug

at the hem of your

sweater (we forgot an

umbrella) and water rolls off your

nose

sticks to your

eyelashes

drenches your

hair. You’re so cold. I can

tell. Your ankles are just about

trembling

fingers almost tinged

blue. Your lips are

the color of grapes and all I think

is it looks like you got into the

blackberries again.

 

I open my mouth to apologize

because I can push my glasses up

my nose without my fingers

trembling; there isn’t even a

need for me to wring out my

socks when we get home. I’m not

cold at

all. I think of giving you my

jacket but it just wouldn’t

fit you. I don’t feel

soaked to the

bone or

like the world is

giving up on me. In

fact I feel nothing but

severely over-

dressed. I smile

(you

don’t.)