"I'm --" she shook her head, forcing herself to keep her eyes open, not to pinch the bridge of her nose, or rub her temples, or engage in any of the other futile little gestures she generally used to try to stave off the headaches. "I'm well enough, thank you for asking."
She took a breath. These protracted silences -- she didn't know what to do with them. She was accustomed to the flow of conversation running smoothly, to being able to direct it, shift it, mold it as it needed to be. Here, though, now, everything seemed more difficult. It wasn't the migraine, as much as she would have liked to blame it on that; rather, it was this repeating sense of deja vu, this unrelenting sense that there was something she should be remembering but simply couldn't quite bring to the fore of her mind.
It was an instance where small talk seemed absurd -- those little conversational lubricants seemed empty and almost offensive to use here. And yet, he was a stranger.