I have an issue.
There is a person at my lunch table who persists in staring at my shoulder throughout our conversation. Every day. No matter what the topic. No matter what I'm wearing. My shoulder.
At first, I thought I might have a piece of lint stuck to my shirt. I looked for it. Like when a person talks to you while staring at your hair. You smooth it. But this is the shoulder. I don't have hair sprouting in tufts through the cotton of my shirtsleeve. The obsession baffles me.
Am I so butt-ugly that one cannot look into my face without perishing? Am I such a huge collection of matter that one must orient herself by focusing on a certain point, lest my gravitational pull make her feel as if she is spiraling toward the center of my black hole? Did somebody sneeze and leave a booger on me? Does my sleeve have a little smart-mouth that drones on and on while one is talking to me, requiring a firm silencing with a Tide Pen? Do I have a feminine hygiene product poking out of my pocket? Did I nod off to sleep in my classroom, resulting in a student-administered, oozing tattoo of a dancing hula girl? Do I have a large mole that strains the seams of my shirtsleeve? Do my irises spin like two hypnotizing black-and-white spirals, causing one to fall under my control with the power of suggestion, lest one looks away to break the spell?
I don't get it.