Who are these people?
I went up to Connecticut over the weekend and, riding Metro North, I started to read "Night Fall," by one of my favorite fiction writers, Nelson DeMille. A woman and her kid were on the seat next to mine and, as the journey was progressing, I could sense her glancing over at me. Finally she just had to speak, and said, "I see you're reading Nelson DeMille. I just finished 'Gold Coast.'"
Ok, who does that? Who feels compelled to talk to a total stranger, comment on their reading material, and share with them what they themselves are reading?
I don't do that. Why did she?
And it's not like I was reading some obscure work by a little-known Asian philosopher, where perhaps a fellow fan would be surprised and delighted to see another aficionado. I'm pretty sure there's about 800 million copies of DeMille in circulation.
She was the same sort of person who - and I've kvetched about this before - comes into my favorite UES restaurant (where I treat myself to a lovely, peaceful dinner every Thursday night), bypasses 20 empty seats at the bar, and sits RIGHT NEXT to me. Because that happened again last week.
Oy, leave me alone, people.
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