Good Conversation With Strangers

Recently, after more than two and a half years in a relationship, the lid was lifted on the box that had safely contained me for the duration.

I was pursued, by a relative stranger, who knew no more of me than my choice of clothing (7 jeans and a tee), and my choice of drink for the evening (vodka-tonic). And yet a distinctive interest existed, even after being informed by my present best friend, of my relationship status being a resounding “involved”.

What does it mean then, when a well-educated, fine-mannered individual, with evidently no malice intended, makes a bid for your heart, I had to wonder. “Let’s go someplace else”. “I can’t”, I whispered, “I have a situation”, I added, in my best ventriloquist’s impression, trying to avoid looking conspicuous to my shared company: my life partner in waiting.

Not “No. I’m in a relationship. A happily-ever-after relationship with bells on”. That would have been the ideal. But I knew there and then that the situation I had found myself in all of a sudden was far from ideal. Making matters worse, I was at the end of my vodka-tonic.

My best friend present did his very best in communicating messages, of a very polite manner I might add, between the two of us that night, in the dim-lit art-deco room, which was proving to be a venue for controversy as well as cocktails in these winter months.

I realised, I wanted to talk with the relative stranger. And in some ways, that was ok, but talking with a view to touching was not, and that needed to be known by the alternate party, I felt. Of course, my judgement was impaired by alcohol, and I decided that the best thing was to reveal my phone number on demand, before disappearing into the frosty air of South William Street. Conversations followed.

Articulate, I-could-really-bloody-get-to-know-you conversations. But by no means were they about relationships. They were about the music world, the book world, Irish culture, family, food, sports, the stock market. They were the conversations you can have only on those rare and wonderful first dates, when they are in fact not dates at all.

Now the conversations have ended (my choice), and I have once again closed the lid on my box. I am aware of the fact that no-one has been harmed by my actions, yet there is an underlying sense that I have scratched the paintwork of my relationship. It’s that same feeling I got when I scratched my Italian leather Prada wallet for the first time back in 2005. Perfection, or the illusion of it, has been snatched away.

My friends tell me I’m crazy, and the fact that I stopped at conversations makes me a saint of sorts. I’m no saint, but it certainly doesn’t hurt to hear your innocence proclaimed by your peers. Myself, I tend to believe that it has been a good thing.

I have been allowed to see my market value, I have been able to value my relationship for all that it is--many things that I took for granted, I am able to be thankful for--instead of all that it is not, and I have been able to value myself, which I believe, in some ways, was the true reason behind the sending of the Relative Stranger.

It has been said that we all need in our lives, to be validated by others. Maybe, every once in a while, when our worlds become polluted by negativity, it’s true. Maybe, we all just want good conversation with strangers.