On Being Asked How You Are

When I ask how you are, you say fine. You say it quickly, the way you would to anyone who held a door for you, and you move straight on to whatever you think I really want to hear about. I notice every time.

I do not ask out of habit. I ask because I want to know. How you are today changes what I ask of you, how hard I push, and what I leave alone. A man who arrives tired and tells me he is fine has taken that choice away from me, and I do not like having my choices taken.

I understand why you do it. You think your ordinary days are not interesting enough to bring here. You think the point of this is to leave all of that at the door. But I am not asking you to complain, and I am not asking you to perform. I am asking for one honest sentence.

Tired. Restless. Pleased with yourself about something small. Worried about a thing at work you cannot stop turning over. Any of those is more useful to me than fine, and none of them takes longer to say.

There is a kind of attention in answering properly. It means you have stopped for a moment and actually looked at yourself before handing me the answer. Most men never do that, not for anyone. Doing it for me is a small act of trust, and I count small acts.

So the next time I ask, pause before you reply. Find the true word, even if it is an unflattering one, and give it to me plainly. Then let me decide what to do with it. That is the part that is mine.