My grandmother's funeral brought with it this stranger sitting across from me at the reception, his eyes fixed intensely on the plate of cold chicken nuggets in front of him. Every now and then he'd take a small, tentative bite before returning his gaze to me. I think he was a friend of a cousin or something. Anyway, as we sat there awkwardly, he suddenly asked: “Do you like my shirt?” I hesitated before nodding vaguely towards the muted plaid, which I'd never really considered particularly nice or un-nice, just... present. This brief exchange seemed to settle into a rhythm that would last for the rest of the afternoon, a gentle hum of forced conversation punctuated by his occasional forays into shirt fashion commentary.
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