A place where I buy coffee on a semi-regular basis is staffed by an attractive dark-haired woman with a European accent. I have neither the means nor the motive to make small talk with her and so was surprised that when a man in the queue spoke to her more in five minutes than I had in a year, some atavistic instinct kicked in and I instantly perceived him as a rival who must die.
Man (American accent – pointing at a pastry – wry smile) "I'll take one of those."
Woman (pointing out a pastry, but with a more carefree and amused air than ever before) "This one?"
Man (taking his smile to Joker level) "I don't know. It's a tart, right? Or is it a torte?"
Woman (still charmed) "I don't know. We just say 'tart'."
Man "Wow. It sounds so French. You're not from France, though?"
Woman (putting his pastry in a bag) "I'm Italian. But I have been here for two years now."
Man (lying) "I figured that."
Woman "Where are you from?"
Man "Seattle."
Woman (as if this were some fairytale kingdom) "Oh. I have never been."
Man "You'd like it. Well, maybe the weather's a little rough, compared to Italy, but if you can live here … "
Woman "Here is your tart."
Man "Are we certain it's not a torte?"
Woman (laughing, a slave to this level of wordplay) "No!"
Man (leaving, with a big, healthy, genetically enticing smile) "See you around."
Me "Coffee, please."
She raised her eyebrows and set about making it, as though to speak now might dilute the majesty of what was said before.