In short, I am afraid of you. Not in the sense that I think you would hurt me or steal my iPhone if I leave it unattended, but because I don’t know if I should talk to you or not so I give a slight nod, a slight smile, and concentrate on my hash browns and my glass of tea the waitress has no interest in ever refilling. I am reading Kurt Vonnegut’s Mother Night on this particular evening. I make a note of the line, “It’s a big enough job just burying the dead, without trying to draw a moral from each death” in my phone. I want to ask if you’ve ever read any Vonnegut, to tell you that I’ve read Tom Clancy before but not the book you’re reading. I am not brave enough and I am disappointed in myself. I take another bite and am surprised by how fast the ice is melting in my otherwise empty glass.
