There's a sickening, grinding noise.

"Did you see the Super bowl yesterday?"

"No. When was it? Maybe that was why traffic was so low when I was driving yesterday!"

More scraping noises. Clinking, as enamel meets steel. There's some unnerving cracking noise thrown in for good measure.

"We're almost done here. You doing OK there?"

I raise my hand, though obviously I'm not. There's intense irritation. A visceral urge to get up and walk away. 'Discomfort' doesn't quite cut it. My hair's on end, fingers curled up into fists. Nothing really scares me, but it doesn't take much to raise my hackles.

Suddenly, I'm less wise.