When I'm deep in a visiting room conversation, seated at one of those little wooden coffee tables, my eyes dart and wander. Some say it makes me look dodgy, but my eyes always roam when I'm speaking. It's like there's a flowchart of my thoughts being projected over the world — a dynamic script for me to read and follow from point to point — and only when I've fixed on one idea do they come to rest on anything at length. And I do mean anything; it's gotten me into trouble here a couple of times. On visits, though, I sometimes end up staring at a person.
I have become pretty adept at noticing when someone locks sights with me through the flowchart. Their face comes into focus, then, like a whale breaching from the deep: eyes, nose, mouth, and all the components that resolve into a collective. A person. A consciousness separate (which never stops amazing me) from my own. I remind myself to look away — preferrably at my visitor, lest she or he mistakenly doubt my level of involvement in our exchange — even though my thoughts have synched in that instant with a total stranger's, rendering all that mess about lacking Theory of Mind momentarily meaningless... even if the shared thoughts is Quit staring at me, jerk.