Everything is going along just fine, but then I turn around and see the distance between us. I turn and move to close the distance. I look, and she's there, waiting. I open a channel of communication as I do so, and start to explain the view from my side of the gulf.
With a harsh word, she hacks at the bond that connects us and the line clouds with an intolerable static. Although she muddies the line, it's me who severs it. The bridge looked sturdy, but it slackens. The ground at my feet cracks and gives and inspires worry.
Should I beg to simply be heard? "Pride goeth before a fall," yes, but is a little dignity too much to ask, especially when you've anted up enough already? Maybe it's hubris, but at the moment my answer is no. Maybe it's an excess of ego. On the other hand maybe it's been not nearly enough.
That's the risk of wearing your heart on your sleeve: every once in a while, someone slugs you in the arm. The trouble with being Mr. Nice Guy: people routinely mistake it for a kind of weakness, instead of what it is: a kind of strength. It's an investment, and all investments involve risk. They don't all involve a payoff.
