This wasn’t intimacy. This was a script. Not just any script—a script of questions so personal that they vacuumed away all the wonderful mystery about her.
I didn’t want to know her opinion of her family already. I didn’t want to know her worst memory already. I didn’t even want to know five things she liked about me already. I was learning things that, by being revealed so clinically, snuffed out my curiosity about them and the chance to know how she would, over time, choose to tell me them.
You learn something essential about a person not just through who they are but through how and when they tell you who they are. (And by figuring each other out, sneaking looks into each other’s eyes, and touches on each other’s legs.)
And until then, if you care, you fear—or, rather, hope—that you’re proving yourself worthy of hearing. You know: worthy of trust. The kind generated by what you want to say instead of what you’re instructed to.
I realized at the end of the questions that I would never know what she would’ve told me freely had she actually come to trust me, and that gave me pause.