Compliments

He was a man for whom tak­ing a com­pli­ment was the hard­est thing in the world. It was patho­log­i­cal. He would be hes­i­tant to admit it, but there it was. An unpleas­ant truth, often unat­tend­ed and sup­pressed but still known.

He squirmed awk­ward­ly and ground his teeth at every flat­ter­ing remark, or lyri­cal wax­ing, or sung praise. Even mere well-wish­ing seemed embar­rass­ing and undeserved.

It was, prob­a­bly, a reflex of his protes­tantism, you see, for there was none right­eous and his aware­ness of an undu­lat­ing vain­glo­ry and boast­ful pride was for­ev­er a hate­ful mark and secret token of his reprobation.

And, so it was, that he grinned appre­hen­sive­ly with vise­like jaw and balled fist, strain­ing to give thanks how­ev­er tru­ly thank­ful, a con­flict­ed and know­ing imposter both in the world and with­in his own soul.