The Pedestal
"Take me down, please," I said. "I'm really not a fan of heights. And I shouldn't be up here anyway. What were you thinking?" "No," she replied. "You belong up there." "I don't." "You do." "I don't. But I can see that arguing with you will get me nowhere. Can I please come down?" I looked down at my feet, which stood square on the small patch of ceramic. My knees knocked together, most likely due to nervousness, and my hands shook. Even my teeth began to chatter. Then, my eyes met hers. "It's like this." She adjusted the hem of her shirt and the strap of her purse against her shoulder, and then crossed her arms over her chest. I could see the furrow between her brows grow bigger. Was she trying to figure out what to say? "You are who you are. You're a great person. You have a life I'd love to have: a partner, great kids, a job, and a passion. You have a supportive ...