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Hi, my name is Nigel, and I'm hydrophilic. You, of all people, should know how hard that can be. Of course, it means I was grown in a hothouse in water, for those of you who aren't familiar with that ancient Egyptian word. But you all would know that, of course, having funded some of the most groundbreaking archeological digs in the 21st Century. Anyway, as I was saying, I need water. I love water. I love it in all of its forms - ice cube, lemonade, spring rain, dog's - well, there is a limit, heh-heh ... I'm sorry, did I scare you? ... No, I drool like this normally. Oh yes, of course I understand - the punch is wonderful ...
Nigel turned and looked for another person to chat to at the party. But everyone had gone, and the room closed in about him, deafening him with its resolute silence and imperturbable blankness. Hi, he thought, my name is Nigel and I'm claustrophobic. That means, I can't eat strawberries of ski in rubber pants. It's a psychology condition found only in me. But I take care and I can't believe I'm carrying on like this. All because I lost Barbara.
Nigel rose and went to the kitchen. He bent to look into the bleak, unfeeling refrigerator for a perky, savory soda. He took our a Mr. Pibb. The ceiling fan hummed overhead. "I thought the room was full - I thought Barbara had company, lively dashing, company. A passing train caused the tiled floor to vibrate under his feet. But Barbara was alone and I've lost her. Lost lost lost." He wasn't sure where the passing train thought had come from. "Hi," he mumbled to the soda, "My name is Nigel, and ..."
His roommates found him supine and quite sound asleep on the kitchen floor the next morning.
