It's lunch time in the real world. Before me is a caesar salad and a bottled water. Sitting all around me are men and women reciting familiar jargon. "Streamline this" and "Synergy that". My reflex is to set aside my package of croutons and embrace the jargon speakers warmly, draw their heads into my chest, gently pat the back of their heads, and express my sorrow for their loss. But I'm not sure what's missing.
I wonder how many are painters, or poets. I wonder how many have a secret romance with classical music but hide the fact from their Jock Rock co-workers. I wonder if the drop-dead gorgeous woman next to me is a ballerina. I bet she is. She moves like a dancer.
There's a giant of a man-more giant than man-staring out of the long cafeteria window and up into the mountains. Is he thinking of adventure or worrying about bills? Missing his family or the links? He looks uncomfortable without a beard and axe. I should offer him a dead animal to skin. Perhaps I'm wrong. Could HE be a ballerina. It's possible. He stands like one; toes pointed out and such.
Brothers and Sisters eating all around me and I don't know a single one. Compatriots in the fight of life and I don't know any of their names. There are too many 60 dollar ties and loud newspapers to feel peaceful enough to offer out free hugs and head pats. Cell phone rings equal the human population and every person is wearing shoes. I wonder how I would react to the ballerina sitting next to me, had she worn her pointe shoes today. I hope well.
I've not touched my salad or broken the seal on my water. As I type, a guy around my age is pacing behind me, talking on his asshole-blue-tooth-earpiece, and spouting out more of the same language I've grown to despise.
And I wonder, if he were to glance over my shoulder and glimpse a bit of this writing, would he understand my jargon? And would there be a hug that follows?