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Do I need to save him from boredom by talking right now?
Is he looking out the window right now because he can’t stand talking to me? Is he ready to go?
Five seconds later, I wonder, What was that twitch of his hand? Was he reaching for his jacket? Is he ready to go?
Five more seconds pass. What about now?
It’s difficult to think an independent thought over all the internal racket. When it becomes too much to bear, I put down my cup.
“Can I ask you a question?” I say, cutting in on . . . well, really just myself.
His gaze drifts from the window. He blows some steam off the mug of coffee currently touching his lips. Completely undeterred. Two feet away from me, this man is living an entirely different experience. “Sure.”
“Have you always been so”—I hunt for the word—“undisturbable?”
His green eyes twinkle. He gives an amused little lift of his lips and puts the coffee down. “Is that a word?”
“I’m not sure. Should be if not.”
“Is that supposed to be a compliment or a critique?”
“Compliment.”
“Well. In that case.” He sits back in his chair and really takes the time to think the question through. “I guess I have to ask you to clarify your definition of ‘undisturbable’ before I can answer.”
I shrug. “Just everything about you, I guess. You seem to be in the unique position of someone who truly, absolutely could not care less what anyone else is thinking about you at any given time.”
He laughs outright, as though I’ve just pegged him and he’s surprised. “Explain.”
“Well, look at you right now,” I say. “You’ve been staring out the window for the past five minutes without even looking at me.”
His eyes cloud. “And that’s . . . good?”
“It’s not normal,” I counter. “Normal people who’ve just met don’t feel comfortable sitting together in a coffee shop looking at the snow out the window without saying a word to each other.”
“Has anything about today with you been normal?” he shoots back. “I have no idea what’s going on, to be frank. I’m just going along for the ride.”
Fair. So it’s been a weird day for us both.
Back to the point, though. “The point is,” I say, “people don’t just do what you do. They don’t just comfortably sit back and go ‘along for the ride.’”
“I agree,” he says, which, quite frankly, is surprising.
“And they certainly don’t just hang out in silence like we’re doing.”
“Does it bother you?” he asks.
“Yes!”
“Why?”
“Because how can I possibly sit here with you without worrying that you’re bored out of your mind if you don’t talk? People talk. People make small talk about the weather—”
“We’ve already discussed the weather. It’s clearly snowing.”
“And they talk about . . . about shoes,” I sputter, reaching for the first object that comes to mind.
“You . . . want to talk about shoes?”
