“I was reading a study recently.” She said as she squidged the last bite of her Lara Bar from its wrapper without touching it, ” That said living compassionately and feeling gratitude on a regular basis makes people happier.”
“Yeah,” I nodded, looking up from my book. “I get that. Still–”
“Still, what?” She leaned on the arm of her chair.
I paused and looked up at nothing for a moment. “If someone does something exceptionally dickish in my presence, I’m going to think, ‘You’re a whole bag of dick, buddy.’ Compassionately, of course. Then, I’m going to feel gratitude that I don’t have to look at them on a regular basis, and happy that I’m not obligated to even remember that they have a name.”
“I can see how that would work to your advantage.” She nodded and opened her laptop.
“And theirs.” I turned a page in my book and resumed reading at a random spot on the page.
I heard her laugh and choke on her coffee, and after a moment very softly say, “Fuck you for that.”
“For what, my asinine apathy,” I asked, not looking up from my book. “Or my consistently impeccable timing?”
“Both.” She answered. “Both.”