It was worse at parties, when he tried to chat up someone, anyone. He discovered invariably that his verbal interaction was out of synch with the world around him.

"That's a nice dress you're wearing."

"I don't like Kafka."

"Well, it accentuates your shoulders."

"So, you're a laptop."

And so on. In fact it seemed that he and the others carried on different sides of different conversations. It wasn't fatal, because it was never all that important what he said, anyhow. No lives hung in the balance, except his own. And no one noticed there was fun to be missed in his conversations dangling like Harold Lloyd on a broken clock.

With no one to talk to he obsessed himself with the Internet. Not the chat rooms, no, because there he was only mistaken for a computer bug. He began meta-searches for the statements people said to him and found a cache of old soap opera scripts. It was all there. To the letter. He downloaded the massive files of throwaway words and learned by heart each syllable, practicing in front of the mirror until mastering the shallow nuances. Then he went back to the party.

"How would you like to read the Metamorphasis with me in a bed surrounded by cockroaches, a dish of chocolate covered ants and grasshopper wine to refresh us?"

"I don't like Kafka."

"I think my mind just crashed."

"So you're a laptop."

Story #355

Postscript: For all your scripting needs, please visit Drew's Script-o-Rama!