They were silent for a moment, before Zooey took a dramatic sigh which indicated she was going to assert conversation.

“So,” she said toying with the fringe on her scarf, “You seem to know so much about me, what’s your story?”

“Like my autobiography? What?” He questioned with a hint of dry sarcasm.

“I mean, what are you doing going around following people? Do you have a job? A pet you take care of? Are you living in a dumpster bin? That kind of story.” Zooey explained.

“I’d hardly call those story topics,” he grinned.

“Well…” Zooey prodded.

“Fine,” he started, leaning forward towards her as all mysterious storytellers do, “I like to observe, that’s why I follow people. It’s not like I have a hit-list tucked in my shirt pocket. I find people dull, morbid, and disgusting. But once in awhile you find people that are inspiring and comical, much like yourself…”

“Inspiring and comical?” Zooey said with a quizical and disturbed expression, “I’m in a black comedy?”