On telling my date I'm a care worker

"That's such a great job," she says.
"It must be so rewarding."
I look down at my pint,
thinking of our "customers",
Freudian ids, always demanding
food and drink and coffee,
breaking only to piss and shit and sleep.
The brightest one pleasures
himself with toilet brushes.

Seven years in
and still I fail
to see a trace of human soul.
They're evolutionary accidents,
the perfect argument
against God.

I fake a modest smile.
"'Well I've always liked
"to help people."
My standard lie, often told.
She leans forward, beaming. Happy
to have met such
a nice guy.

I've learnt to hate
that look.
Another person's assumption of
my inner beauty,
their projection of a real
heart that,
like God,
simply isn't there.


.