The Favor

I've come to you for a favor.

I'm hesitant to ask, but have no other options.

I search your face for a mood, some hint of possible outcome,

But your expression is blank, neither welcoming nor rejecting

Questions.

I wonder if my favor will change the course of my life,

Or if it will affect yours.

I've chosen each word carefully, the intonation and phrasing,

The delivery and dramatic pauses,

I've practiced, but fear that I will stumble when the moment

Finally arrives.

One by one I examine the reasons why you should grant my favor,

Building up a case of affirmation, bullet points for the yes.

I wonder briefly why certain people can ask with no reservation,

Ask repeatedly, without shame,

As though sheer volume will eventually carry the day,

While others almost never ask,

Content to struggle and succeed, or fail, via their own devices.

But is this not a device as well?

How strange this dependence, this return to childhood

Embodied in words spoken or unspoken,

In proposals acted upon, or discarded as untenable,

Or intolerable.

Does my reluctance to ask lie in my fear of rejection, or the fear

Of others having some innate power over me?

I know that I do fear becoming angry if you say no.

I even subconsciously practice this anger--this hurt--and my

Reaction, and its quick dissipation,

Re-living it again and again like a tongue on a sore tooth.

Perhaps if I'm eloquent enough in my anger it will change your

Answer.

Then I think, just for a moment,  that maybe I don't want you to 

Grant my favor.

Maybe I'll feel too indebted to you, and the guilt will saddle me

With regret for even asking.

Do the words make up the favor?

Or do the people?

I've come to you for a favor.