Sociopathological

I'm looking for help editing from the whole community. This here is bits and pieces of the the meet-cute of the story. I'm a new author. Right now it's just bits and pieces, mildly like mere thoughts.

There was sunset pouring in the out-of-the-norm breakfast hub Miranda. I stared where it gold-flecked. The waitress passed through it being showered upon without thinking a thing of it, she was taking the order of the next table over; when he walked in. His hair was a little over an inch long, piled over his scalp; he had brown/green eyes�"hazel people call it. It was fascinating and enrapturing. I quickly disposed of the thought. His hair was blonde. He was tall, almost a full head length taller. His face was round, circular; he had the appearance of strength endowed with plushness. I perished these odd thoughts. 

The male veered straight towards me after taking in the room. He stared at me in a complementary non-double-edged sword kind of way, and his stride was soundless. After taking the six steps to my table he proffered, “Ms.” he held out a hand, “might I take this seat to my own pleasure?” 

Oh, my heart pumped something extra. He used a heavy, pretty, southern draw�"I half expected him to tip a hidden-to-the-eye hat. Along with the southern draw, his voice was like gently sweeping desert sand, velvet or satin; it was gentle and sugar sweet. How mannerful! With this stranger I was charmed.

“Of course fine ranger,” I teased with a little wave of my hand. It was easy to play-act. I did that all the time, and not everyone had half the charm of this man.

The man smiled at me endearingly and took his seat.

“So why join me, Fine Sir?” I asked curiously. I was always investigative foremost. It’s not as if the ‘Fine Sir’ knew he was speaking to a sociopath.

“Well, I only find it fitting to escort a lovely lady.” He said in the southern draw. 

“Lovely lady,” I parrotted questioningly.

“Lovely lady.” He offered decidedly. Then, I finally got my tipping of the imaginary hat from him.

“Now what have you been up to today?” I inquired, putting my hand against my hip and the other raised to wag.

He smiled at me and it became a pleased, approving mix.

“I’ve been working on the railroad, all the livelong day…” He sang.

I gave him a patient look. 

“Seriously though, I’ve been at work all day, now I’ve just been out for a walk.” He said with no accent but a voice still velvet and satin. 

“You think playing it funny, practically strumming a lyre�"singing�"will win a woman's endearment?” I nearly sugarly commented, thinking of his odd actions.

The male winked, dimpling-ly smiling and ducking his head, “Well, a lad can dream.”

“So what do you do for a living?” I changed the subject.

“I am a principal,” He proudly puffed out his chest and took on a ‘serious’ look.

I nodded appraisingly.

“What do you do for a living?” He turned the question around on me.

“I am the manager of a Bookstore: my job is a greeter, and I lead people to their desires.” I fancied up my description. 

I was wondering on his play acting, odd appearance at my table, and recent activity, but just then the waitress got to our table. With brilliant smile she cheerfully asked, "Is there anything I can interest you two to drink?"

"I'll have a sweet tea," the gentleman said, and looked to me.

"I'll have a sweet tea as well," I nodded as the waitress handed us two menus. I went back to interrogating the man, "Do you appear like this regularly at stranger's tables?"

Was it only women he talked to so extrovertedly? How was he when out walking in the open?

"I love to walk up to new strangers, meeting new people. It's one of the pleasantries of my job, I try to be as active as possible since it's the public I serve." He offered sincerely. I could understand loving to meet people, it's always interesting, I just prefer to remain a stranger while doing it. At the library, no one gets to know the librarian, but I get to know everyone's secrets and inner worlds. I am a librarian, I like people's stories. I wondered if he was a principal for an elementary or high school and if he liked kids. They could be too much, but in my library I handled them like any kind of people, and kept myself just as estranged. That's where the safety is and in the library I felt in control.

"Do you meet many new people a day being a librarian?" he asked.

"I do," I answered, "I became a librarian because I love stories, people are like living books."

He laughed heartedly at that. So I took the opportunity to ask, "Do you like kids?" That ought to be enough for him to say whether he was an elementary or high school principal too.

He smiled, "I like kids, they're very active and interesting. I work at a middle school though because kids at that age are especially interesting since they're a little more mature."

I tilted my head considering this whilst entirely agreeing. It was easier to handle calm or non-instigating people. "What is so interesting about strangers to you?"

"I always find new ways interact when it comes to all the different people." he shrugged, "I love figuring different people out and having fun."

"I bet you're just amazing with kids, loving to play-act," I hummed.

"I can be, they're pretty crazy though!" he laughed, "I love to go to the little theatre and see kids tiny performances. Are you a kid-person?"

"Like you, I prefer calmer ages, but yeah, I'm a people-person." I returned.

"So you love books?" He grinned. The waitress swung by and gave us our sweet teas. We both ordered club sandwiches, I don’t suppose either of us evaluated the menu much. I answered the question.

"I love feeling immersed in a different perspective." I love feeling like I have a different experience. Pleasantries aside, I needed to clue this boy in on my character, “Have you heard of absurdism?” 

It wasn't usual for me to interact with people outside my library. If I hadn't been admiring the sunlight by the door, this man may have never talked to me. I usually put off a very self-contained vibe outside the library, one that didn't say I wanted to interact with others. I did not form personal connections. I interacted with passerby in my domain where I controlled everything and nothing personal got out, but now I was interacting outside my domain and I needed to worn this person who I really was. I was both the absurd and personifying absurdism, a ruthless search for a nonexistent meaning. I felt nothing and could feel nothing.

“A philosophy of humanity’s doom, that sought after meaning fruitlessly. The apple in the garden of Eden, if you don’t mind my analogy.” The man dutifully reported. The apple, that evocative compulsion that humanity has faced since all of time began. To find meaning.

“Very eloquently stated Gentleman,” I approved. “They say the book The Stranger is a very good example, Matthew Ward's says, 'The Stranger demanded of Camus an artistic sleight of hand that would make the complexities of a man’s life appear simple. The "simplicity" of the text is merely apparent and everywhere paradoxical.” It’s a story about a Sociopath.” 

Part of the impact of The Stranger is that a man is being sentenced to death, yet emotion is largely kept out of the text, just the surreal realities. The whole book demands of the reader, 'why is this man being put to death?' why, because it is such a drastic fate and for what reasons? Where's the sense? That is the text, but reading the story, the sentenced man's thoughts are that of a sociopath. Lacking any emotion, just violently contrasts of reality. A plot that comes off as a fate lacking any sense and a character that won't feel the emotion, it hits very powerfully on absurdism. It's plot summing up to 'it just is'. The man looked at me perplexed, when I said nothing more for a minute then he accompanied the look with words, “The Stranger feels fear, lacking-luck, unjustly dealt, self-pitying, tampered anger, fear, and his approaching demise.”

"Conclusions drawn from events. Before he knew he'd be sentenced to death, he anticipated that reality. Not in emotion, but in that that reality wouldn't serve him. Sociopath’s are capable of some tampered-down emotions, they’re just incapable of relating to others with their emotions and having empathy. It’s clearly as it’s called, “An antisocial personality disorder.” A cliche, often reported to be true, is that sociopaths are self-serving and egocentric.” I responded.

“Aren’t all emotions conclusions drawn from events? What makes you say the Stranger is different? A sociopath?” He returned. With that the waitress delivered our food. After we’d both taken our first bites, I responded really thinking about how to put it into words other than, ‘I recognize his way of thinking.’

“Well, there are the facts of his life. He had no real connections and was apathetic to his mothers passing. But it really shows in his lack of empathetic connections.” I offered instead. 

“Sociopaths are incapable of love.” I said severely and point-blank. He utmost needed to know that experiential agenda. It was integral to future moments.

“Should I ever die, as the main character, Meursault was, I would hope my death would be, “stripped of liberty, beyond sensation to enforced memory, unsatisfied desire and, finally, to a kind of understanding.” I said.

“You should want to be stripped of liberty?” the man asked and asked with the tilt of his head, “You would wish to have that kind of luck?”

“Merely stating the inevitable, dilapidating conditions of aging, without the unsatisfied desire for some lucky individuals. I should like to be understood before death.” I corrected. If that was the ultimate goal [to be understood]. To feel like I’m not a liar hiding in plain sight; it’s a heavy burden to keep closed. I have my bookstore, I should be satisfied before death. I want to be satisfied, to be seen, to no longer be able to hide, to not feel I make others sad.

“Aging is with a dignity and can carry a good life with understanding,” he countered with an appreciative acknowledging look in his eye, not the appreciation of my opposing opinion but the right to refute a fine withstanding opponent.

“There is no dignity in my aging,” I clarified.

“How should you know, you’ve hardly aged a bit.” I did have a lot more to age, a majority, but I felt fair in my assessment.

“From the age which I became an adult, after the few years I could age my life�"22 on�"I have worsened as an individual.” I continued, “My life has become increasingly erasable and extinguishing of understanding.”

“Why do you say that?” The man asked.

Well I didn’t want to tell him why my life was erasable; that would destroy my plans! But I could tell him this, ”I am no longer in contact with my parents” Even if that was an exaggeration.

The man did not move though his hands were folded before him, “Why’s that?”

Honestly, I didn’t know a reasonable explanation for that. My ‘reasons’ were reasonable to me, but would not be to the normal. “I suppose they were good, but I have a despicable disposition, and better to withdraw that tell anybody. So I withdraw heavily away from my parents.” 

The man looked remorseful, he shuffled his shoulders. “That wouldn’t sound worse if it does not sound without flaw.”

“My parents are better off without me, it is no fun being around company that does not want you around; the constant rejection would be ruthlessly painful to them. I don’t want to be around them because I am…asocial,”�"I whispered�"“And I would not want to pretend to be a character I am not, a character that enjoys socializing or in depth relationships. I actually much prefer flippancy. A character that would have to play especially sweet when my bones are bitter. I would not want to lie.” I looked at him clearly.

His sympathy slightly abated to regain normal conversation, “Then it is not mournful…or worse.”

“No,” I offered.

“So you aren’t worse.”

I found a new way to argue, “But I am antisocial.”

We looked at each other in silence; him dazed off, me watching him.