How do you know they’re not talking to somebody?
I may have to think about this for a while.
A dark, lonely elevator, late at night; a lone lamb, dressed up in black leather, all rivets and zippers, out for a wild night on the town, eying me intensely from deep shadows on the other side of this impossibly small little, moving cubicle …
“Bob, is that you? How’s it going? Yes … yes … well, thirty years isn’t all that long, is it?”
djm
That does seem a dangerous road to travel.
I’m sure they were more startled that you’d been listening than anything.