It is quite easy to forgo chatter and how-is-the-weather speak for a slice or two of pie.
You choose key lime. And as you plunge three spikes called fork toward shape of lime juice/zest, eggs, and condensed milk, you realize how little there is to say in this world.
You realize swallows can be far more profound than asking about the latest talents of their children.
You realize licks of sour and graham cracker sweet is much more satisfying than alphabetizing their weekly accomplishments.
You realize pie can be far less judgmental and cynical than social gatherings.
You do not floss. You prefer calories to sit between your teeth as though they are star gazers, howling at the moon or (in this case) your tongue.
This pie is your confidant. Your traveling companion. You scale mountains and hop streams with this pie.
You neck in a movie theatre playing a documentary on poverty or poetry; it does not matter because you and this pie are chewing language into one another.
You dip your unmanicured but proud fingers into its sticky pale green. Nor grass green or pea green. Not olive or jade. Neither emerald nor peridot. More pale, like sun-starved. You prefer it this way.
Now, what else must be written?
You remove battery from phone and unplug distractions like electricity and clothing.
You want to uni-task with this pie.
You want to taste and flirt with its crumbs, without interruption. And this is how it goes until there is no more reflection of green and only full.