Wednesday, 19 January 2005 | Polite society

I'm afraid we've run out of things to talk about. I go there too often, for one thing; I suppose I can't really expect to have a meaningful conversation three times a week with the men who make my burrito. What is there to say? I haven't even had to speak my order for the last year-and-a-half; they start assembling it upon seeing my face poking over the glass counter.

Usually we just smile at each other and offer "how are you"s and (lazy) "fine"s. Sometimes we refer to each other by name, and occasionally a comment is thrown in about the weather or the upcoming weekend. We are terribly polite and predictable.

Raul, the first on the assembly line, is the one I converse with the most. He is friendly and professional and always seems genuinely glad to see me. We've exchanged only the plainest details about ourselves—our names, which neighborhood we live in, and where we grew up—all of which have come out slowly, like we're carefully letting the air escape from a soda bottle that's been shaken. Of course, I mentioned visiting Mexico (his native country), and a week before I was due to leave, he proclaimed, "Seven more days!" (He continued counting down for me until my departure day arrived.)

Now that I've become something of a fixture, I (irrationally) worry that my absence might disappoint them. Last week, when Sarah picked up a burrito for herself (I'd decided to eat elsewhere), not only did I wait for her outside the restaurant, but I hid behind a white van to fully obscure myself.