<br><br><center>*Perhaps the most important thing we bring to another person is the silence in us, not the sort of silence that is filled with unspoken criticism or hard withdrawal. The sort of silence that is a place of refuge, of rest, of acceptance of someone as they are. We are all hungry for this other silence. It is hard to find.
― Rachel N. Remen*
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![women-blonde-maxim-maximov-portrait-wallpaper-preview.jpg](https://images.hive.blog/DQmVURo4pdAbdN2bQdMqUUzn197tksPnXHLtbHM8NqEVesc/women-blonde-maxim-maximov-portrait-wallpaper-preview.jpg)
*Wren Tyler*</center>




<br><br>"You know why Wren is ghosting you, don't you?"

Maeve Palmer always asks rhetorical questions because she isn't expecting an answer from me. She knows I have no idea why Wren disowned me and now is making my life hell.

She rolls her eyes at my dense gaze and puts down her coffee mug . "She's trying to get your attention, Jude."

"Well, she's got that―why does she have to embarrass me in front of everyone by refusing to talk to me?"

"She's furious and filled with resentment because she feels you rejected her or didn't value her the way you should have."

<br><br>I hang my head in shame. "I can accept that―I know I was insensitive to her feelings and handled the situation badly."

She nods sympathetically, "There were mitigating circumstances. I mean, you were drunk, but at least  had the decency to come to her afterwards and apologize."

"Why couldn't she accept that and move on?"

"Maybe she felt shamed in front of your colleagues. Fact is, some people handle rejection badly. For certain people it takes a long time to get over rejection, and  some people never recover."

"What about the saying that time heals all wounds?"

"Its a proverb―an observation after the fact that isn't always true. Some wounds don't heal―they fester and get worse. It may be time to move on―leave the dead to bury the dead. You go on with your life."

<br><br>We were sitting in the Hart House dining room where we often met for lunch.

 I've known Maeve since high school and although she's beautiful and gifted in Psychology, we're just colleagues and friends and never blur across that line.

I know Maeve is right, I just can't convince myself to draw that line with Wren...and so I go on, swimming against the current and swallowing my anger with each stroke.

<br><br> My afternoon graduate seminar goes much better and we spend an hour discussing the Elizabethan world view and how it impinges on the art of Shakespeare.

It's all very erudite, collegial and laid back―certainly not charged with anything as kinetic as a Siren's song or embarrassing as a frosty silence, but it's not riveting as well― but plain as vanilla.

I liked the distraction of Avery and her game of seduction.

I guess I like a touch of spice―something to create interest. I long for engagement, enchantment wonder. I'm tired of bleak winter days ending in sombre sunsets.

<br><br> It's Wednesday and we have our usual mid-week department meeting chaired by Agnes Porter. I come in late and the only available seat at the table is directly across from my nemesis, Wren Tyler.

She's looking lovely of course in a soft red cashmere sweater, her honey-coloured hair shining brightly and freshly applied lipstick inviting.

She averts her gaze and focusses on Agnes and when I contribute to the discussion or ask a question she looks through me as if I weren't present.

<br><br>It's extremely uncomfortable for everyone, but there's a tacit understanding  that we all ignore the elephant in the room, and so we do, and the meeting ends without incident. 

I go home alone, intact and otherwise unscathed, at least outwardly, but inwardly I'm bleeding.  

It's a slow death by a thousand cuts, none lethal but each one taking its toll and draining my life's blood slowly.




                         
<br><br> <center>To be continued…</center>

<br><center>© 2022, John J Geddes. All rights reserved</center>

<br><center>[Photo](https://images.app.goo.gl/yYV8H6XtdKbn8oWi6)</center>
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