Swamped

It occurs to you that you've got a mask - you've been carrying it around since you showed it to the artist, since you didn't have a particular plan for it.

You adjust it so that just a bit of it is sticking out of your pocket. Then you decide to try to connect on the basis of age.

"Not many folk our age here tonight," you say casually. "Have you seen the show before?"

They put the scroll down quickly, and glance up at you. Their gaze seems to linger for a moment on your exposed mask.

"I haven't. Decided to pop out tonight because this is my last chance. Not that I'm expecting much, mind you."

Hmm. You think the voice sounds a little forced, but it's hard to be sure. Might as well keep things going.

"Why come all the way out here if you don't expect it to be good?" you ask.

"Honestly? I'm retired, I've got no family, and I hardly get any visitors. This is the closest I can get to excitement."

"I suppose I can understand that," you say, a little cautiously. "Though it seems to me you could have watched it before if you've got that little going on."

"Only heard about it three days ago, and the other performances were halfway across town. I told you, I hardly get any visitors, so it's hard for me to find out about this sort of thing."

You get the distinct impression she improvised that explanation, but you still don't entirely trust your judgment that much. Maybe if you interrogate a little further.

"I'm sorry for not appreciating your situation," you reply. "How did you hear about it, then?"