In a coffee shop (you can guess which).
A woman, thirties, no makeup, semi-professional looking, maybe media company, or a startup VC firm. Expensive handbag. She's got her Blackberry in a special case so she can finger-tap while it's lovingly protected, and she does, sipping her coffee, ocassionally.
Over-communication: the twentieth century plague.
Sometimes, I think it would be lovely to turn all my kit off and sit outside of the wifi zone and just think and listen and be.
Guy comes in: thirties, pale. He's male to her female, matching-professional-appropriate dress sense. They smile. Intimate: they've had sex. They smile in that way people in comfortable relationships who may have forgotten how to speak to each other smile. Slightly empty. A take-you-for-granted smile.
No words.
Smiling through each other. A smile that says one day I'll get round to telling you what I think and feel. Keep one eye on the clock, the other on your blackberry and your third eye? That's for working out the truth.
He sits down. Gets out his PDA. Starts doing email.
Ten minutes. No words.
They're both sitting there, tap-tap-tapping away with the elephant in the room. They may communicate (out) but they sure don't talk.
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