TETE A TETE

Please be boring over dinner and talk about yourself all night.  It’s what usually happens when I get taken to a restaurant afterall.  Work, pensions, finance, property, all those conversations people find so exciting.  Please, please, please, give it to me hard bore, baby.  Oh baby.

 Shit, you want to talk about me?  You’re asking an unfeasible amount of direct questions.  I’m not liking the fact I’m answering, that I’m coming out of my shell.  This is so not good.  Please be respectful of my privacy and treat me like the fluffy bimbo I’m dressed up to be.  Let’s discuss you, there’s a good chap, or money ... No, you stupid, intelligent man; don’t, really don’t!  My friends and family refrain from making these penetrating enquiries, they don’t look beyond the exterior and who are you exactly to do this?

Your questions are taking moments to tear through the bullshit I carefully constructed over years to hide myself behind.  Stop it.  I don’t like facing up to myself, yet I am talking to you in a way I haven’t spoken to anyone else, and what are we to each other precisely?  My defences are being shredded, your words are incisors and you are seconds from realising my true nature.  May I strongly suggest you change the subject?  You’ve seen me eat with my fingers, so you must know I have the manners of an animal.  I’m gripping the steak knife under the table and it’s pointing at your throat.