Mondo didn't have much to say, nor could he think of much to say. Melting into an unrecognizable puddle of shame goo sounded a lot more appealing than a conversation he was guaranteed to fuck up. He sat there in numbed silence, drumming his fingers against the surface of the table pretending to tap out a beat for a time. When he decided the lull in conversation had reached a limit of unbearableness and was lengthening into something extra awkward and stilted, he mentally clawed for something else to talk about.

Thank god he could fish something out, he thought when he started with, "Don't think I caught your name. Mine's Mondo, Mondo Oowada, by the way."