Blinds

"You have a what?" she says to me.

"A journal. It's this thing that I started a few years ago and I just write in it when I have something to say."

"Like what? Stories?"

"Different things. Not really stories, but sometimes I guess they are."

She clicks the mouse. "Let me see."

There is a pause and then she looks at me.

"Oh."

I fidget with the uncomfortable part, the explaining why there are a few hundred people who are remotely interested in anything I might have to say. How do I begin to tell someone not familar with the concept about my virtual house? This place where I have, for the past five years, welcomed both friend and stranger to break bread with me. I don't have an explanation for it. I never have.

"I just write stuff," I say, red-faced and fighting the urge to look down while I scuff my foot in pretend dirt.

The moment passes and we move on to other things. It's been weeks. She doesn't read my journal again. I'm oddly relieved, without any idea why.