Extract from : The Collected Stories of Lydia Davis

Enlightened

I don’t know if I can remain friends with her. I’ve thought
and thought about it—she’ll never know how much. I gave
it one last try. I called her, after a year. But I didn’t like the
way the conversation went. The problem is that she is not
very enlightened. Or I should say, she is not enlightened
enough for me. She is nearly fifty years old and no more
enlightened, as far as I can see, than when I first knew her
twenty years ago, when we talked mainly about men. I did
not mind how unenlightened she was then, maybe because
I was not so enlightened myself. I believe I am more
enlightened now, and certainly more enlightened than she
is, although I know it’s not very enlightened to say that.
But I want to say it, so I am willing to postpone being
more enlightened myself so that I can still say a thing like
that about a friend.