Kin

It was pretty quiet in there. 

I'll sit at the bar and have an early dinner, I thought. Before I could order though, the male portion of the older couple at the bar starts talking in that amplified voice people seem to feel obligated to use when talking to strangers in a public place. He's asking the two men who just sat down between us what kind of dog they have. Small talk of the most generic variety ensues. 

I think people resort to this to establish commonality with each other. It's nonthreatening to them. Reassuring even. To me, it's a knitting needle in the eardrum. Please, say something weird. Go berserk. Snarl. Cough up a blood clot. Burst into tears. Anything but more of this. 

I grimace and turn on my negative vibe machine. After a few minutes, the chatter wanes and the couple leave. I take credit for it silently. 

It's purgatory to me. It's an indeterminate sentence on death row. I look around for something or someone I can relate to. There's a young guy in a Slipknot shirt singing acoustic numbers. He's no help. I choke down my  food and leave. 

As I'm driving out of there, I see a lone car in a parking lot with its headlights left on. Thank you.