Years of Eye Contact and Evasion

There are certain people in life who don’t deserve a chapter in your book… but somehow still manage to audition for one every time you’re just trying to buy something at Home Depot.

This is not her chapter.

Let me be very clear about that.

A chapter requires depth. Complexity. Humanity. At minimum, a personality that extends beyond “aggressively avoiding eye contact in public like a 1900 Galveston flood ghost with a secret.”

And yet… here we are.

For context: I spent years working at a restaurant I loved. The kind of place that felt like a second home. A safe space. A loud, slightly inappropriate, deeply comforting bubble where being yourself wasn’t just accepted… it was the whole point.

And then… this manager happened.

Now, I’m not saying the vibes shifted dramatically, but if “safe space” had a natural predator, it would look a lot like a woman who somehow manages a gay-friendly restaurant while radiating the energy of someone deeply uncomfortable with the people who make it successful.

Make it make sense!

It was confusing then. It’s still confusing now. Like watching someone host a pool party while being openly anti-water.

Anyway.

Fast forward: I move to Galveston. I build a life. I thrive. I glow. I mind my business and occasionally cause just enough lightning to keep things interesting.

And then… plot twist… she moves here too!

Quietly. No announcement. No warning. Just… appears. Like a sequel no one asked for.

For the past decade, we’ve been locked in the most bizarre, unspoken standoff in public spaces across this island.

Restaurants. Stores. Random aisles. And most recently: Home Depot, where nothing says “closure” like locking eyes near the garden hoses and immediately pretending you’ve both never existed.

It’s a very specific kind of performance.

We make eye contact.

There’s a flicker of recognition.

A microsecond of “oh, it’s you.”

And then… like synchronized swimmers of emotional repression… we both look away and suddenly become deeply invested in… the sky or the ground. Or mulch. Or whatever’s within reach.

No words. No acknowledgment. Just silence. Terrible, awkward silence.

The thing that gets me: I know I didn’t do anything.

In fact, I showed up. I worked hard. I was good at my job. I was, frankly, delightful. A gift. A treasure. A limited-edition employee!

So the avoidance? The weird energy? The decade-long commitment to pretending I’m invisible?

It’s fascinating.

It’s commitment to the bit, honestly.

If you’re going to ignore someone for ten years straight, you better commit. And she does. Zero breaks in character.

At this point, I almost respect it.

Almost.

But mostly, I find it hilarious.

Imagine going through life putting that much energy into not acknowledging someone who is fully out here living, thriving, moisturized, and completely unbothered… except for the part where I am, in fact, slightly bothered, but in a way that fuels great storytelling! Hahaha!!!

You don’t get a chapter.

But you do get a blog post.

A weird, awkward, Home Depot-scented paragraph about eye contact, unresolved energy, and the absolute art form of pretending someone doesn’t exist while standing three feet away from them next to a giant fern sale display.

Congratulations.

You didn’t make the book, but you did make the parking lot.

Xoxo, AB 💅💄💋