"A chica? If you went to Nicaragua you would need to find a chica?"

This is his casual mania seeping through. Perhaps more a good mood than true mania. One sided charm. Dud charisma.

We are sitting at a table, and I'm feeling a twinge of annoyance and a hair of depression. These feelings prick into me like two long, slick needles.

"No," I say, feeling like the response is forced and deadpan. "A remote town, or something. Somewhere that I could live quietly for six months or so."

"With a chica?"

There's a joke on his lips. He knows the answer.

"No, of course not." I surrender my words sullenly. "The vast majority of Nicaraguans have hardly any education."

"Not even the chicas?"

I'm losing edge. The dialogue is floundering. I feel compelled to respond, even though I'm not being taken seriously. Even though I don't know what I'm saying.

"Maybe not the vast majority," I say, "but many don't have hardly any education. If I were interested in dating someone, I imagine they would need to have some education. I don't even think I'm interested in seeing anyone for the next couple of years."

A pause.

"I doubt I would connect with anyone I'm likely to find in some remote town," I continue, "just because that's something that's important to me -- education, I mean."

This is not something that I want to talk about, and it's hardly me speaking. These aren't even my sentiments. Not my opinions. This is not even a conversation, really. The worst part is that I understand his flippant mania, or at least I imagine that I do. Sometimes, everything I say sounds right, too. It's not an accurate feeling.

"I find that odd," he says, commenting on my education statement, losing his smile and sounding serious now. "Especially coming from someone who's only got a GED."

"That's not what I mean. I don't mean a formal education." I'm defending myself now?

I mumble a short recollection to bolster my position, whatever it is. No one is listening, or caring. And then the conversation is on its back like a traumatized spider. I'm feeling tired and withdrawn.

Later, reading, I'm enthralled. I consider talking to someone about it. But somehow, sharing things with people seems like a mistake. Anything. Or everything. It all loses value when it comes out of my mouth. When people nod and don't listen. When they acknowledge and don't care. When I can't seem to care about their words, either.

And so I stash it all away, relish it all myself. Withdraw into a tight, tight little ball. And wonder what everyone else is here for, anyway.