Semi-Precious Silence

Not much more to say about deviled eggs, really.

We stared out the window. Cars drove past. The four of us might as well have been a pile of stones. A pile of old stones with a healthy appetite for deviled eggs and potato salad. Sad to say, that even then that pile of weathered stones and their appetite would have more to discuss then us sad souls - that is, their peculiar existence as stones with fully-formed digestive tracts. A wellspring of potential topics awaited these brainless clumps of historic matter, and they hadn't yet broached the curious fact that they'd been blessed with the power to macerate, yet not recieved a pair of arms, legs, or a decent smile.

A boon of conversation awaited a lump of stones and the rambling lunchroom behind, but the four of us continued to stare like plain idiots out the window, chewing hot dogs with empty eye sockets and shit for brains.

A moment passed, and I entertained the thought of mentioning my daydream about potato salad-eating stones. I snuffed the idea out after correctly deciding that sharing would result in more silence. This new wave of silence would be worse because I'd have to take full responsibility. It would be like sharing a stifling hot tent that everyone had quietly passed hours of gas in, then opening your rectum and flaring one into a lighter. The flame erupts, stares are cast, and the last three hours of cubic fart rest squarely on your shoulders.

Sometimes silence is a semi-precious stone that needs no polishing.