Nice kills
It begins innocently enough. A comment or two about the weather, spoken too loudly to be a simple muttering, too soft to be a general address. He turns and speaks, but more to the window than my face. His mother is well...if only the government was more generous...they're all puppets. Every time he finishes a statement, his head tilts with this broad grin, especially tempered to encourage a response. All I can do is nod my head or say "oh" as each plastic word tries to fit in my ears, like a frustrated child forcibly matching jigsaw puzzle pieces. Why does it all seem so uninteresting...so bland but exhausting? He could be explaining the technical complexities of making oatmeal, and my mind wouldn't be more inert. It's as if he has so little interest in him that he has to drain it all from me, suck the life from the world around me; and suddenly boredom seems temerarious. It becomes clear he does not care if I am listening to him; this conversational vampire just wants to get his fill while dumping refuse all over my mental space. Does it spread? Must I, in return, dump all of my banailties on some unsuspecting, affable citizen in order to really live?