There are three men standing in the cold, waiting for the library to open for the Big Sale. I am one of them. We are all strangers but the other two men engage in awkward small talk. I am made of brittle thorny bone and don’t draw small talk. Something unsavory about my face, maybe. The man next to me says, “My taste in books is pretty strange, so I can usually find something interesting that most people don’t want.”
The other guy says, “Oh yeah.”
I consider barging in and asking him about his unusual literary tastes but I keep my trap shut. Why struggle through a conversation? Why allow myself to get mired in dialogue? People are quicksand.
This is how I go through life...
Now hurry up and open the fucking door.