Me: Hey, man, I had a pretty good time hanging out today.
Awkward Steve: Hey, me too.
Me: Yeah, well I see that my stop is coming up here on the left.
Awkward Steve: Uh huh.
Me: Gotta stop in to see my professor.
Awkward Steve: Uh huh.
Me: Yeah.
Awkward Steve: So I guess you gotta go now.
Me: Uh huh.
Awkward Steve: Huh.
Me: Right.
Awkward Steve: What are you seeing your professor for?
Me: I have to ask about a homework assignment.
Awkward Steve: Oh, that’s pretty cool.
Me: Not really.
Awkward Steve: Oh. What class?
Me: Plant Sciences.
Awkward Steve: Oh, man. Do you like Plant Sciences?
Me: I mean, it’s okay.
Awkward Steve: That’s pretty crazy.
Me: You know, I really have to go, man.
Awkward Steve: Huh. Where’s your Plant Sciences class?

Whatcha doing here, Steve? You know I have to go. And I know you know that because I told you that, no more than 20 seconds ago. I remember it vividly. I remember the words from my mouth slamming into your stupid blunt face, bouncing right back off and hitting the ground dead in front of you. And yet you’re still here, forcing eye contact and saying words that do no more for our friendship than if you were actually gone.

Do you even care about my Plant Sciences class? Because I’m starting to think you don’t and that you’re using my daily routines as a crutch to support the crippling loneliness that must seize you and tear at the very fabric of your existence the moment I leave your presence. That’s the only way I can justify the obnoxious extents to which you go in order to keep me from disappearing from your sight and your evil trap of erosive, unforgiving small talk.

On the one hand, I get it. Father Facebook has taught you to never lose touch with anything ever for even a half a second. I understand your crushing 21st century dependence on empty social contact, and the thought of walking somewhere alone is akin to being dropped off in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean and told to swim to shore. You’re lonely, and you don’t like it. That’s cool. I also don’t like being lonely. But it isn’t the end of the world. You can still hop onto Twitter and reconnect with your virtual friends between here and the next place you’re going. Stop being a nannykins.

At some point I have to recognize that an awkward goodbye is partially my fault. After all, I could simply say “goodbye” and walk away, leaving my friend in stunned abandonment. This is a great method in theory, until I realize what a coward I am. I open my mouth to scorn him, and I suddenly begin to realize that I, too, do not want to leave this desperate conversation. The resounding silence of my impending next minute or so of walking starts to sink into me and weigh heavily. I glance at my phone. It doesn’t have Twitter on it. My rising fear leaves me clinging to every word of Steve’s best estimation of what the weather is going to do later tonight. It’s going to rain, you say? What time do you think? Tell me what you know about rain. I am much too fearful of losing this rapidly dwindling friendship to break it.

To remedy this inherent weakness in me, I’ve struck a deal with some of my friends that I’ve found to be successful. Upon the first hint of a goodbye, I immediately turn and shuffle away wordlessly, never looking back, and my friend follows suit. By the time the paralysis of temporary aloneness sets in, I am far away in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.