I Don’t Read Minds

He gave me a scowl.

Middle of the tune. Bass was pulsing. I was on keys, deep in it.
Then I saw it. The look.

I didn’t flinch.

I didn’t run through the list. Didn’t ask myself if I was rushing. Didn’t wonder if I stepped on his line. Didn’t consider backing off or switching voicings or playing softer or anything else.

I just kept playing.

Because the moment was still happening. And the sound was still moving. And the only guide I have at that moment is myself. There’s no time to calculate probabilities. And even if I could read his mind—what then? I’d still have to decide who’s right. Me or him.

Meanwhile, the notes don’t wait.

The only way to keep playing is to trust my own judgment. Keep doing what I think is right. There is no choice. The alternative is impossible.

Afterward, I walked past him. Still scowling.

Still didn’t ask.

Not because I didn’t notice. Not because I lack the wiring. But because I don’t live that way.

I don’t decode facial expressions. I don’t mine posture for truth. I don’t dig through silence looking for messages that might be there.

I don’t read minds.

And I know what that means. I know what I give up. I know that once in a while, I might miss something real. A piece of wisdom, maybe. Something useful, unsaid, and offered only through a glance or a shrug.

I let it go.

There’s gold in glares and grimaces. I just don’t dig there. Too much work. Too little yield. I’m happy with the easy pickings.

Some people would call that Asperger’s. Like it’s a disorder.

I see it as a choice.
It makes sense to me.