Potato chips

"You have come in from the darkness."

I nodded. He waited. I sat. He remained seated. 

"I wearied of discussing potato chips."

Vezio's expression remained expressionless, "Potato chips".

"Potato chips."

Vezio remained as he always was, hands lightly clasped in his silent dignity, no agenda other than to understand, patient to a fault, waiting. I sat as quietly, subdued by my trials, weary of my travels, and not entirely sure I had learned anything. He waited some more. I whispered.

 "A woman walks into a bar, sits, and without a word, the bartender passes her a ginger ale with a twist. He grimaces at the new bruise on her face, much like the older one on the other side. He moves away. She sees his discomfort, and unlike before, this time she talks, 'My husband beat me, and our children again'. A man, one of several in a suit, sitting a few seats away glances sideways at her, knowing her and this despot of a husband of whom she speaks. He pushes a half empty bowl towards the bartender and says without intent, 'Chips...'. 'BBQ or regular'? 'Regular. The BBQ taste like Tabasco'. He gets his chips, she finishes her drink, she leaves, the bartender removes her empty glass and wipes her place." 

Vezio sat for a moment, then ever so knowingly nods his head. "Potato chips."

"Potato chips."