"Why do you have to be such a downer, such a party pooper, such a curmudgeon, such a god damned stick in the mud?" she asked. "You can't allow that people feel good about electing the black guy, that people look forward to change, that they tend to prefer hope over despair?" she continued, and with some sincerity I think, as if she wouldn't mind an answer but felt in all honesty that the question obviated the need for one.
"I'm quite content to indulge people their little fantasies," I evenly replied. "After all, it's not like one has a choice, really: you can tell a dog to stop behaving like a dog and it may comply in some way - but it's still a dog. No, I don't mean any harm... it's just that I'm the type who, when I first meet someone, as I'm shaking their hand I'm thinking all the time 'so what's this one's problem'... I'm a 'what's wrong with this picture' kind of guy... and the more people I see standing around admiring the picture, the more suspicious I become."
She looked at me with just enough pity that it could have been mistaken for kindness if she didn't find me so pitiful. "You're a sad, sad creature," she said.
"Yeah," I said, turning away as if to contemplate something at a great distance. "Doesn't mean I'm not right..."
