Nocturne #9 – Small Talk
What begins as a typical fast-food run, complete with social anxiety and an ominous order number, turns into something more. This is the story of a crumpled receipt, a shared laugh, and the surprising discovery that in a world designed to keep us apart, a simple, awkward conversation with a stranger can be the most profound confirmation of our shared humanity.
The noise of the city center, wandering around for shots, and a sudden, primal hunger. Galleria Tbilisi, Wendy’s. Salvation. I’m standing in front of that big, flickering screen that tells humanity: “You don’t need to talk to people anymore.” I’m proud. I feel how I’m controlling the technology. Me, a man of the 21st century, ordering my combo with the refined movement of my fingers on the sensors. Next to me, some middle-aged guy is confused. I want to help him, but my social battery is at 1%.
At the end of the order, the machine spits out a long paper tongue. The number: 999. Cute. But the receipt is upside down. I flip it over and… 666. Oh, damn. The universe is clearly sending me a message. My burger is probably coming straight from the kitchens of hell. But even though Satan is inviting my soul, my main fear now is something else: “small talk.” I have to go to the counter and talk to a person. I could have said nothing at all and just taken the menu, but if I didn’t share this with someone right away, I probably would have died. A nightmare.
My number is announced. I go up to the counter. There, I’m met by a young guy who you can tell really enjoys his job, full of energy. And I, with my best, shy smile, hand him the receipt.
— Look what a lucky number I got, — I say, trying not to let my voice break.
The guy takes my crumpled receipt, balls it up, and throws it in the trash. It seems he didn’t quite understand my words. Then he sees some incomprehensible disappointment on my face, recalls the sentence I uttered in his memory, and immediately takes it out of the trash, uncrumples it, and looks at the number. The look on his face is as if he had a huge chance of winning the lottery and missed it by one digit.
— Aww, son of a bitch!” — he swears with bitter regret and crumples it up again.
— Hope I don’t die today, — I reply, laughing.
— Nah, bro, you won’t die — he tells me with unexpected quickness, laughing too — I prepared this set with my own hands, believe me, it’s out of the question!
In that moment, in that simple, sincere phrase, “you won’t die, bro,” was the entire history of humanity. Hope, care, and a little bit of fast-food magic. And I realized. “Small talk” isn’t just a conversation. It’s a small, momentary bridge between two complete strangers. It’s the confirmation that in this chaotic, digital world, we can still look each other in the eye, laugh at the absurd, and say: “No, bro, you won’t die.”
And sometimes, that’s the most one person can give another.