On our uncertain silences

When neither of us is sure whether a silence is awkward or pleasant, I observe us both deciding whether to say something. And we do decide we must say something, anything really, if we conclude it is an awkward silence we are sharing, or a rude one. It is sad, and funny, too, to watch two people (especially when we are the two) scramble mentally, trying to recall snippets of news caught on the radio, some a topic of general interest. Perhaps one of us will mention a recent, vaguely-remembered study that has proven definitively something we are sure we have known all along -- that friendship makes us happy, or that we have fewer friends now than ever, or that happiness in friendship helps us live longer, or that we're more afraid of dying than ever.

Sometimes we interrupt each other in our eagerness to stop up the silence which is pooling around our ankles, and splashing into our shoes and up our shins, making our conversation seem to be a slow, hard wade. If we were confident of one another, though, things might be different. If we were certain that the other was comfortable, if we each knew that we each knew how to survive the silence that from time to time will flood up between two people, things might be different.

We might smile at each other as we let the silence overflow the dams we had built up against it; we might even hold hands as we held our breath and kicked off from the floor into the surrounding silence. As it is, we struggle and flail, each trying to drag the other to back to dry conversation.