Apartment

by Teddy Wayne

hovered, as was my style in any group setting, at the periphery, talking to the other strays. As with my extracurricular nonparticipation, I had been a historical interloper who resided on the borders of several crowds, never fully inhabiting them, voluntarily or not. “Floater” would be the term of flattery, connoting nimble social skills and a chameleonic ability to blend in, though I wasn’t nearly that smooth. I could generally hold up my end of a conversation, knew how to listen and make jokes, but it was a performance, canny mimicry of how I had seen others interact: you nod agreeably at this moment, you supply your opinion or anecdote or question at this juncture, you make a concerned face (aw) over this unpleasant revelation. I rarely allowed myself the easy way out through what I thought of as “script reading,” consistently reciting the same breezy phrase for greetings or farewells, or recycling an impression or story verbatim. I wasn’t talk-show-host suave, nor was I awkward or robotic; the seams were well hidden, and the end result was apparent normalcy. Only I was aware of how much effort went into making it look effortless.