I sit on the couch, looking around the small room. Two people in the corner laugh, probably over something not very funny. The people in the room are in groups or couples; talking, laughing, smiling, while I sit there. Other people are next to me on the couch, but don’t acknowledge my existence, my serious expression, my quietness. Acknowledging my existence would make them uncomfortable, then they’d have to realize they’re ignoring me, talking to their other happy, toothy grinned acquaintances instead. So I sit there, alone among the neat crowd, surrounded but not really there. No one stops to ask me a question, or if they do, like,

“Oh, sorry, but I don’t think I caught your name, who are you again?”,

I simply answer in a monotone voice, adding no other snippets of conversation,

“Sarah.”

This, of course, makes them all uncomfortable, and they smile and say, ‘nice to meet you’ or ‘oh, I just love that name’ even though it’s not the kind of name you fall in love with. They then go back to their conversations about the weather, people or places they like. Nothing too out there, though, you wouldn’t want to have a different opinion than everyone else. That would just create...conflict.

So they talk, and talk, and maybe take a sip of wine, but not too long, not too long to create quiet. Because then they would be left alone to their own thoughts, and no one wants to think. No one wants to think, because it’s untidy, it’s not something you can talk about. So they just keep talking, keep talking to shove away the thoughts into a deeper and deeper corner. Unlike me, who sits in my thoughts. I sit in them, thinking, thinking, thinking. Those thoughts aren’t just thoughts, though, they lead to ideas. No one understands that, that thoughts lead to ideas. They’d rather just talk, just keep away those thoughts, because they’re too hard, too hard to talk about, too hard.

Suddenly, everyone in the room stops talking, and I look up. Someone taps a spoon on their wine glass, and everyone looks up, still smiling, especially the man standing with the wine glass and the spoon in the middle of the room. There’s nothing in those smiles, nothing, they’re blank, cold, placid. Why can’t anyone else see it? Those smiles aren’t real, they’re fake, so fake, pretty and fake.

“I’d like to thank everyone for coming tonight,” says the man with the spoon, “but I’ve decided against it.” A stupid smile covers his face, and the rest of the room laughs, out of expectation, out of avoiding. Avoiding conflict. I’m confused, why’s that funny?

“That’s not funny.” I blurt it out, and the room stops, for once, no noise.