Small Talk
Standing at a hotel bar with Irina and Erik. Irina’s the kind of woman magazines were invented to feature. Erik’s the kind of man who speaks with his hands. I’m there because money requires it, which means I can’t tell Irina what I’m actually thinking, and I can’t tell Erik what I think of his business plans. First we have to do the small talk. The exchange of words that mean nothing, performed by people who mean nothing to each other, in service to an obligation that costs us more than it’s worth.
I hate small talk. I hate it with the kind of intensity that should probably concern someone. The fake interest. The eyes that have been trained in their lifetime to look engaged while you’re actively dying inside. The assumption that you have to pretend to like each other before getting down to business. And I hate most people, genuinely can’t stand them, so the whole thing becomes this special circle of hell where I have to feign affection for someone I’d cross the street to avoid. Dogs sniff each other and move on. Humans invented this.
The weird part is how little of it serves any actual purpose. If I cared about what Erik’s building, I’d ask. If I wanted to know about someone’s weekend, I’d ask. If this was actually about Irina as a person and not just her body, I wouldn’t be standing in a lobby pretending to care about small talk. But I do all this instead. I stand and pretend. I smile and nod. I talk about nothing, performing interest in things that don’t matter, burning time to avoid the actual moment.
Here’s where I lose all credibility: I’m completely hypocritical about this. I despise small talk when I’m forced into it, but I absolutely require it when I’m the one being approached. Someone wants something from me? They better have done their research. Know my favorite color. Have thoughts on Munich summers. Say what I’m thinking before I think it. The rules are ironclad. And yes, they’re stricter the less I know you and looser the more attractive you are. I know I’m a fraud. I don’t mind.
So here we are. Erik’s talking about his vision for some website nobody asked for. Irina’s slowly evaporating. I’m sending mental signals to the bartender: slip me a knife, pull the fire alarm, give me permission to start singing obscene jokes in operatic form. Anything. Nothing works. Champagne arrives instead. I lift my glass. I smile like I’m having a good time. I laugh at his punchline like I haven’t heard it a thousand times before, like it’s the first funny thing anyone’s ever said. I’m such a lie.