The Stare Down

 

The Stare Down

She wasn’t looking at me to make friends, despite the smile on her face. Our eyes caught. I smiled back. Instantly, we were locked in that silent game: who would look away first. She was playing to win, to show she was dominant.

I looked away, and I never looked at her again. I’ll never give her attention, even if our paths cross again. Maybe she walked away thinking she’d won—that she was stronger and I was weak. Let her think that.

The truth is, I looked away because I saw exactly what she was: a sociopath who finds amusement in unsettling strangers rather than seeking genuine connection. I didn’t look away because I was weak; I looked away because I was strong enough not to play.

I sized her up in an instant, from a single look. And I wanted nothing to do with that vile creature. It’s what you do when you know how to spot a psychopath.

She might have felt smug, believing she’d asserted her dominance. But while she was preening, I was silently diagnosing her antisocial personality disorder for what it was.

If I wanted, I could outstare anyone. I’ve outstared cats, made statues crack. I’ve trained myself to override the blink reflex. But it’s a game I despise.

Because anyone who measures superiority by forcing someone else to look away isn’t someone worth being tangled up with.