What I'd Rather Not Think About

When I look at those ducks, all I see are delicious duck legs, said the woman. Ah, I thought, then said, And look at those geese over there, they're perfect for Christmas. Well, said the woman, I happen to think geese are ... No, you really can't talk about them like that. She looked at me, apparently shocked. Sitting on a bench in the park, I told my brother about the woman who would eat duck, but not a goose. All my attempts at superficial conversation end awkwardly, I said. I have a gift for broaching painful topics. The other day I was talking to the bike mechanic about the weather, I said. And, naturally, the conversation turned to the children he no longer saw because his ex-wife had moved to Ibiza, where it was always sunny, And then I didn't know what to say. You have to use cliches, said my brother. It's why they were invented. For the longest time, I thought that the use of cliches signalled a lack of imagination. I didn't understand they were formulas you could use to keep other people at a safe distance. Your gift isn't a gift, it's a defect, said my brother. You can't keep you distance.