Unspoken

Unspoken


"Oh, hey, glad to see ya," I said over the traffic noise.
"Yeah, been a while," she said with a bright smile.  "How're you doing?"


So you know, I didn't really go out of my way to cross your path. . . not far out of my way, anyway.  


"You're really looking good.  Lost some weight?"


What a moron I am.  You might think at my advanced age. . .


"Aw, thanks for noticing.  I've been working hard since the divorce," she says with a subtle hair-flip.


Sure, I can talk to you like a person, like you're a smart, nice person.  Then I hear that and look at your cleavage and that male part of all men that's always on the make says, "hey, she's built, think we got a chance?"  


"C'mon, I've always noticed you.  Sorry to hear about that, though."


Now, I'm still trying to carry on the conversation even as I feel the skid begin.  My internal critic says something like, "We're twice her weight and age, what the hell do you think?"


"No, it was for the best," she said, then lowered her voice.  "Honestly, I'm glad to be single again."


If I'm lucky, this is where my conversational vehicle spins out and crashes.  I stutter or simply stop in mid-sentence as I struggle to regain control.


"Wow, I. . ."


If I'm not lucky, Mr. Male Ego says, "oh, yeah?  Well, watch this!"  What comes out of my mouth at this point has never been good.  


". . . I'm glad too, y'know?  Busy tonight?"


Let the trainwreck begin.