Being thus is a flashing green light for anyone who is dying to quote out loud that awesome thing they read this morning on the metro in a women’s magazine.
Being thus is that pause in conversation.
Being thus is the following phrase: “Get married, you can always have affairs later!”
Being thus is remembering Yaroslava, whom someone else remembers with “…and for some reason, this beautiful girl just didn’t have a husband. And then she died.”
Being thus is a prickly blanket of loneliness even if you are not lonely.
Being thus is comparing yourself to those wilting teabags that are saved in the little dish in the cupboard above the sink.
Being thus is telling people that they sound as though they are from a village.
Being thus is not telling people your whereabouts.
Being thus is an intimacy.
Being thus is being pitied and adored.
Being thus is a passing glance.
Being thus is whispers hanging in the air like cobwebs in the damp-stained corners of rooms with high ceilings.
Being thus is digging at a clump of frozen raspberries with a spoon.
Being thus is an invitation to the parties of your parents’ friends.
Being thus is advice on how sex prevents cancer – “but I’m having it” – “but you’re an idiot.”
Being thus is a conversation that gets spread outward and outward, like butter.
Being thus is a reassuring smile from beneath a veil from a woman in a church.
Being thus is the looks from your neighbours.
Being thus is the quiet lassitude of the swallow-streaked evening skies, and the kettle boiling right as he calls.
Loosely inspired by the infinitely superior Being Poor (in case you’re wondering).