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Thank you for not knowing me at all, Captain Shallow.

We'd only spent hours on the phone every day for two months. We'd only tried to crawl inside each other's heads. Why was I baffled and offended when you said what you said? The fact that you said it means you will never understand.

I was tired of hearing about all your other sexual partners when I didn't have any. I was happy when I finally met someone else with whom I felt that spark. Of course I told you.

Thank you for not knowing me at all, Captain Shallow.

I told you he was bright, and how we'd talked for hours about Japanese neon design and the art glass of Dale Chihuly. Then I mentioned other aspects of his uniqueness: cerebral palsy and Asperger's Syndrome.

And you said--you actually said--"He must have been really good-looking then, for you to be interested."

Thank you for not knowing me at all, Captain Shallow.

Did you remember any of the conversations? About how I like beauty in just about everything except people, where it so often destroys their humanity? About the beautiful man who treated me like a disposable convenience when I was young, leaving me drawn to plain faces, crooked faces, with something other than arrogance behind them?

My new friend with the alien neurology isn't good-looking. He's as plain as a loaf of bread. And he can talk passionately about art, which is worth more to me than any pretty face.

Thank you for not knowing me at all, Captain Shallow.

What you said then, and what you did later, make me want to tell you: You're not beautiful. But you might as well be.

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