How are you?
- Pretty good. You?
Not bad. What are you up to?
- Nothing much.
Return to the window where this is happening, a snubbing, if you will, repeatedly.
Ignore all others, ignore it all - here something may happen that is exciting and different.
Dismiss the work - only need to edit now - and focus, focus.
In the window, something may happen.
Mute your speakers, don't aim to seem overeager.
But just glance there casually. A little tab, it'll change soon.
It's nearly being hung up on.
The thudding of a heart's drum line, pounding monotones in a one-two step.
Yes. That's what it's like, although the text and the window claim simply leaving the room.
Leaving the room? Impudence. That's all I can say.
I don't really care if it's 2010, and impudence is reserved for Miss Austen's novels.
Your idle status disgusts me. Or maybe confuses me. I don't know.
So perhaps the thing to do is start another conversation.
One that will end in the other side staring at my feebly tapped, "Hey," in clear shock.
I returned from idle wishing to this? and no reply.
But who cares about their response? I am saving face.
This face stays on, no matter how much my embarrassment tugs at it.
No, embarrassment! You're not taking it with you.
Give up now? Seems a good plan.
I'm stuck here anyway writing other things. Better than talking to you.
Yes, it is. Mind, don't look at your lying self like that! It's fairly rude.
Eh, whatever. The point is, I am going to do what I should do, and that is write.
Not converse. And, hey, guess what? I can talk to anyone else, even that person who I've most likely scared.
Even them. Yeah, feel jealous.
Your idle status means nothing to me. I'm going to assume one now.