No silence. None for thinking — certainly none for writing. He’s with two people who verbalize their thoughts. Their thinking moves with the linear certainly of hail showering off pavement. Play by play is given: “Where did I leave that? Have you seen my *purse *hat *shoes *keys *contact lens *computer cord *books. I thought I left it — is that it over there? Oh, that is it. How did it get over there?” Laughter ensues as they explain to you the process that they just went through.
Variations exist. “Oh my God, I’ve lost my tricorder.” It’s not a tricorder, but a key, a pair of glasses, a credit card. Panic rising, they verbalize their fears that they’ve lost their item, searching and searching, providing updates on the search and expounding on their exasperation, worries, and anxieties.
But then, success! They have found it.
No place to hide from this. No place to write. Yes, writing it out is an exercise in self-pity and frustration. It’s been an exhausting day of vacation.