I think about them.  They had been on the playground, in the hallways, parking lots – both large and small, public swimming pools, libraries, freeways, sidewalks, high school Friday night football games, the checkout lines in middle of nowhere markets where both the patrons and the employees deserved it; countless other unremarkable, commonplace settings populated with THEM.  Without ever knowing them, I had hated them.  ‘Hate’ is too strong; I wouldn’t waste the passion on them.  I had seen myself as better than them.  They were ugly, too vain, fat, too stupid, unworthy of love or laughter.  Through my eyes their friends didn’t really like them, and their parents were perpetually oblivious to the disappointment that they had created by the hungerless fumbling in the dark.  Did I want them to kowtow to me? No.  Rather I wanted the others, those worthy of my love and laughter to approve of my thoughts.  Together we could sit in the sidewalk cafes, inside the velvet ropes of the exclusive club, behind the air-conditioned tinted windows of our magazine-clean automobiles and think our silent thoughts about them.  Derision passed with the twitch of an eye. 

Years later now, I think about them.  They dare not think about me.  Not now.  Not after all that I have become.  All that I have achieved:  My marks were the highest, my opinions the most sound, my choicest the finest.  My scowl and stressed brow keep them from approaching me.  My perfectly pressed expensive clothes keep them from competing with me.  My quips, retorts, silent sighs and cold shoulders keep them from conversing with me. 

Now I search them out.  Through their photos and comments, eavesdropping on their conversations, peering secretly at their absurd text messages and other communiqués which they have left open for the world to see, I see the truth.  I was right.  I alone was right.  The doubt and small vestige of guilt is driven away as I see that in my seclusion I am right.