The Rehearsed Man
An observation on the neurological gap between being present and performing a persona.
The restaurant is quiet. The lighting is dim, the kind of intentional ambiance designed to facilitate intimacy. He is sitting across from her. He has rehearsed this. He has spent the last forty minutes mentally reviewing the anecdotes he intends to share. He has pre-selected a specific, witty response to the question he anticipates her asking about his work.
He is waiting for his turn to speak.
She says something about her day—something small, something inconsequential. He hears the words, but he is not listening to the meaning. He is listening for the opening. He is scanning the conversation for the cue that allows him to deploy the next piece of his prepared script. He smiles at the right moment. He leans in when he thinks he should. He is doing everything "right." But as he watches her eyes, he sees the flicker of something else. A slight detachment. A subtle looking-away. He feels the sudden, sharp urge to lean in harder, to say something more profound, to fix the sudden coolness in the air. He is working very hard, but he isn't actually there.