edge of the continent

Went to happy hour at a Mexican restaurant with friends from work tonight for a drink in honor of two of our birthdays. Overscheduled and over-tired, the four of us couldn’t manage to get together until some three weeks after the fact and yet no one was truly counting, nor was anyone complaining once the margaritas arrived.

We were settling into our second basket of chips and guac and dishing about all sorts of good stuff when two guys we work with exited the main dining room and stopped at our table on their way to the door. We had chatted with them when they walked in the restaurant earlier in the evening and I had been surprised by how short the conversation was, given that one of the guys is legendary for his ability to talk a blue streak. (The other is a quite the talker as well, but actually appears quiet in comparison.) This time, however, they parked themselves at our table and the chatty one proceeded to talk: work, politics, terror plots, baseball metaphors, it didn’t matter, he spoke at length — and seemingly without breath — on each one, sliding from from one topic to the next as they came to him. Two of us excused ourselves to use the restroom, the check came and went, our eyes glazed over and our smiles grew smaller and tighter… yet he kept talking. And talking. And talking some more.

Forty-five minutes later, they stood up and began chatting with the family at the next table… and my friends and I immediately got out of our chairs and scurried through the door. There was no trying to appear gracious, no polite good-byes: just a quick bolt for freedom and a straight run to our cars, lest they corner any one of us in the parking lot for another round of painfully one-sided conversation.

The air was clear and cool as I wound my way home, stopping at the library, then the bank and the gas station. No lingering meteors crossed my sky; even with the full moon, I was hoping a little wisp would find its way to me.