“I want to name my son Nasdaq.” This guy leaned over and said to me. I couldn’t help but glance down at his stomach, which appeared squeezed over his belt and poured underneath his T-shirt. It moved as if it was heading further to wards his knee as he let out a loud cough and recovered back into his chair. “That’s what this country is run on, but I just like the name.” He said while clearing his throat. I still wasn’t sure why he started talking to me. I made no indication that I was available. I knew I had properly concentrated my eyes on my magazine, leaving no pauses in my eyes, but yet there had to be a chink somewhere. Was it in my body language? I should have hunched over further creating more of a connection--a relationship with these words. But here I am possibly stuck with banality.