Does anyone else ever find themselves… disassociating, I suppose one would call it, during particularly egregious civilian interactions? I mean, truly just watching yourself perform the requisite pleasantries while the world around you becomes a blurry, inconsequential backdrop. It happened again just this afternoon, and I can’t quite shake the feeling of it, even now, hours later. It’s almost 2 AM, and the quiet hum of the refrigerator is my only company. It was over an expired coupon. A paltry discount, really, for an item that was already on sale. She must have been… oh, perhaps in her late fifties, impeccably dressed, a diamond glinting on her finger the size of a pigeon’s egg. (I always notice the details, a habit from my service days, I suppose.) Her voice, however, was anything but refined. It was a sharp, piercing instrument, cutting through the general store murmur like a rusty saw. I had politely explained, as is company policy, that the system simply wouldn't accept it. "The date has passed, ma'am," I said, with what I hoped was a calming inflection. My hands were clasped loosely in front of me, a posture I’ve practiced to project a certain… unassailability, perhaps. (It’s a trick I learned during my time in the Red Cross, trying to soothe the bewildered and the terrified.) Her response was a dismissive wave of her perfectly manicured hand, as if swatting away a fly. “Are you quite certain you know how to operate that machine, young man?” (I am 76 years old. ‘Young man.’ The irony, it bites.) “Perhaps you should fetch someone with a bit more… intellectual capacity to assist me.” She leaned in then, her eyes narrowed, a distinct scent of expensive perfume and something metallic, like anger, radiating from her. “It’s a simple matter of overrides, surely. Don’t tell me you’re too dull to comprehend such a basic function.” My pulse didn't quicken. My breathing remained even. It’s a strange thing, this almost automatic suppression of physiological response. A lifetime of training, perhaps, or simply a hardening that comes from witnessing too much genuine suffering to be truly affected by such petty cruelties. I just… watched myself smile, a thin, almost invisible stretch of my lips. “I assure you, ma’am, I am operating the system precisely as instructed. The policy is quite clear on expired promotional offers.” My voice was level, almost monotonous. I sounded like a recording. She went on. For a solid five minutes, she excoriated my intelligence, my perceived lack of competence, my very existence, it seemed, all while a small line of bewildered customers formed behind her. She spoke of her husband’s position, her philanthropic endeavors, her general superiority, all to underscore how utterly beneath her I was. And I stood there, simply performing the role of the courteous, unyielding clerk. My gaze was fixed just past her left shoulder, not quite meeting her eyes, but not avoiding them entirely either. It’s a trick to make them feel heard without actually engaging with the malice. The oddest part, I think, is the feeling afterwards. Not anger. Not even resentment, really. Just… a profound weariness. Like lugging a heavy pack for miles and then realizing you’ve walked in a circle. It makes me wonder if I've simply worn out my capacity for truly connecting with others. The civilian world always felt a bit… fragile, I suppose. So many unspoken rules, so much emphasis on things that, in a different context, would mean absolutely nothing. Is it a defense mechanism, this emotional distance? Or just the inevitable consequence of a life lived on the periphery, watching? Sometimes I wonder if it’s better this way. To feel nothing in these moments. To simply observe the bizarre rituals of human interaction without being dragged into the maelstrom. But then, there’s a quiet ache, a sense of something missed. A longing for a time when things felt… sharper, perhaps. When even an insult could sting with a bit more clarity. Anyone else feel this peculiar blend of detachment and quiet sorrow when faced with such situations? Or is it just the old soldier in me, still struggling to find my place in the peace?