the most deafening thing, in conversations with strangers is what they don’t say. Especially strangers we want to be liked by.
Jerome and I spotted an ad executive I really wanted to meet. He was in the first row so we got a good glance at him and decided he was just too attractive and put together to be anything but gay or stupid.
We watched for signs throughout the performance. How he positioned his legs, how he politely clapped. What would I say to him? I started thinking of a cold open but in truth, I’m losing my nerve for it. Minor rejections feel pointless and often chip away at something inside of me. I have told myself that if any one is warm to me when they talk I will be warm back, otherwise I will keep to myself.
This is a newer quality I’ve developed that I dislike. It points to a hardened and cynical me. A withering of enthusiasm; a quality I dislike in other people. Until recently, I always found myself to be fearless with other people, admittedly, at times to a fault. I don’t like when I have to be stiff and guarded. And every time I am, out of fear of being rejected, I feel as though I am losing a sense of myself I will never get back.
Jerome was friends with someone who the man in the first row was chatting with at the bar. Here we go. I take a breath and smile. We are introduced. I get an indifferent but just polite enough “hi.”
I start talking. I ask, “What do you do?”
“I work in advertising,” he replies.
“What company?” I say, smiling.
“Ogilvy and Mather.”
Excitedly I say, “I am in advertising and researched Ogilvy for months during my thesis. I’m obsessed with him! I wrote about him and Leo Burnett.” I think this will give us something to say to each other.
“Cool.” He nods.
And I knead my hands. Pressing my knuckles into my palm, I try to figure out what other way I can get a volley back and forth. The non-conversation between the four of us continues for 30 more seconds.
Then Jerome interrupts, “Wait, did you hear her? She said she wrote wrote a case study in about the company you work for! You don’t have anything else to say? That’s amazing that you have nothing to say to that!” Jerome starts laughing.
The advertising man, with the expensive haircut and symmetrical features, does not know how to respond. Now I am laughing and I feel a huge tension leave my chest. My cheek twitches and I realize I want to cry from absurdity, loneliness, and for having a really amazing friend.
The ad man, I think to match us, gets down on one knee and says some purposefully insincere compliment about me. It makes us laugh even harder at him. The lights start to dim. The second act is starting. Jerome and I walk off shaking our heads. I squeeze his shoulder and thank him.
He says, “it was nothing.”
It was everything.
This is a newer quality I’ve developed that I dislike. It points to a hardened and cynical me. A withering of enthusiasm; a quality I dislike in other people. Until recently, I always found myself to be fearless with other people, admittedly, at times to a fault. I don’t like when I have to be stiff and guarded. And every time I am, out of fear of being rejected, I feel as though I am losing a sense of myself I will never get back.
Jerome was friends with someone who the man in the first row was chatting with at the bar. Here we go. I take a breath and smile. We are introduced. I get an indifferent but just polite enough “hi.”
I start talking. I ask, “What do you do?”
“I work in advertising,” he replies.
“What company?” I say, smiling.
“Ogilvy and Mather.”
Excitedly I say, “I am in advertising and researched Ogilvy for months during my thesis. I’m obsessed with him! I wrote about him and Leo Burnett.” I think this will give us something to say to each other.
“Cool.” He nods.
And I knead my hands. Pressing my knuckles into my palm, I try to figure out what other way I can get a volley back and forth. The non-conversation between the four of us continues for 30 more seconds.
Then Jerome interrupts, “Wait, did you hear her? She said she wrote wrote a case study in about the company you work for! You don’t have anything else to say? That’s amazing that you have nothing to say to that!” Jerome starts laughing.
The advertising man, with the expensive haircut and symmetrical features, does not know how to respond. Now I am laughing and I feel a huge tension leave my chest. My cheek twitches and I realize I want to cry from absurdity, loneliness, and for having a really amazing friend.
The ad man, I think to match us, gets down on one knee and says some purposefully insincere compliment about me. It makes us laugh even harder at him. The lights start to dim. The second act is starting. Jerome and I walk off shaking our heads. I squeeze his shoulder and thank him.
He says, “it was nothing.”
It was everything.
