Given my verbose writing style, it should come as no surprise that – in real life – I’m a talker. And, frankly, I’ve been one for most of my life. My parents’ frequently tell me that, during my first days at preschool, when asked if I wanted some crackers at snack time, I apparently replied: “actually, I think I’d prefer a croissant.”

Still, despite my garrulous nature, I’m also fascinated by people. So I ask questions, and force myself to shut the hell up and listen. Amazingly, when people know you’re really paying attention, realize you actually care about their answers, they’ll spill the beans – even those beans closely held and rarely discussed. On an almost daily basis, I seem to hear, ‘wow, I can’t believe I just told you that; I haven’t talked about that with anyone before.”

Which, while often fascinating and flattering, occasionally leads to rather unexpected results. Last night, on a long cab ride home in the wee hours of the morning, I suddenly remembered an equally long cab ride, almost exactly a year back. That night, for about twenty minutes, the cab driver regaled me with stories about his childhood, about the psychological effects of having a father unable to truly express his emotions. By the end of the ride, I was the one thinking, “I can’t believe he just told me that.” Or at least that’s what I was thinking when I wasn’t focusing all my attention out the window, looking for a soft landing spot should he verge any further into serial killer territory, necessitating my jumping out of the moving vehicle.