I walked into a coffee shop a few days ago for a ham and cheese croissant and a cup of drip coffee, black. Ahead of me stood a partially good-looking, partially unattractive, woman. I quickly figured out what it was that I found so unattractive. Her mouth was open. It wasn’t that her mouth was open per se. Like an open window that allows the neighbors to see inside a messy house, her mouth allowed for a disturbingly unfiltered view into the brain, due mostly to the words emerging therefrom.

She spoke with a man who wore a pair of those flat-front slacks; the sort of pants that a man wears when he wants to reassure anyone who is worried that he might have testicles. They tapered down smoothly to a pair of semi-casual, semi-dress (black with a hint of bright, faux-rebellious modernity) sneakers. Wrapped with meticulous sloppiness above his shoulders was a scarf that looked rather more like a leash around the neck of a Ken doll. He wore his head cocked passively to the side as his hands warmed gently on the nonfat half-shot-sugar-free vanilla soy latte, and on his face was a pair of scrunched-up eyes, contoured in an attempt to broadcast only the most sincere empathy, as bolstered by a periodic understanding nod.