Beneath the surface

I’m a fraud.

I smile in agreement at least several times a day at notions with which I don’t agree in the slightest.

I engage with conversations in which I have absolutely no interest.

I regularly laugh at jokes I don’t find funny.

Someone will come into my bar and ask me how I am. I’ll tell them I’m great regardless of how I might actually be feeling and worse still I’ll then go on to ask them how they are doing even though I’ve no interest in the answer.

If they smile and tell me that they’re doing well, I’ll smile back and we’ll collude in the pretence that I am in some way invested in their wellbeing and that this comes as good news to me.

If they answer a little more honestly and tell me about how hard or crap or harrowing or boring or whatever their day has been, I’ll pull an appropriately pained expression and feign a sort of vicarious anguish for their benefit as they regale me with the details. I’m pretending to listen and keeping half an ear out for when is the right time to insert the appropriate noises and one word affirmations but the lion’s share of my attention is focused on looking for the earliest moment that I can comfortably withdraw for the exchange and retreat to a comfortable and familiar solipsism.

I look interested and happy. I come across as a people person willing to listen and eager to share a funny story but beneath the surface I’m happiest when left alone.

There’s a quiet sigh that escapes when you and your ilk walk through the door and you catch my eye but I hide it because I’m good at this.

I’m practised. I’m experienced. I’m subtle.

And you’ll never know how many of your humorous exchanges and heartfelt confessions fell to the wayside because I was busy elsewhere.

Counting the minutes.

Picturing my escape.