this has been written to be forgotten

I know an "us". I have known them for quite some time. The attempt to dissect them holds more interest than that which is naturally generated by the two of them. They are in the nicest of all possible formulations, boring. They also never split up. In person, they present themselves as a "we". On the telephone, the other is always invoked, unneccessarily, superfluous - like a layer of gauze lain across a vaselined lens. It is not that I don't like them, or either of them. I am struggling to see their appeal. They are prised together by bonds that I cannot see and this makes me hope that they are not a unit of negativity, imperceptibly poisoning the environment of those in their circle with their fear or dependence.
They never split up.
It is a she and a he. Who she sees in the mirror is not herself. She has never seen herself, marked the changes, imported her lineage into the phyical features reflected back to her eyes, never looked at herself and rethought "I see me and this me I see is thinking, seeing one thing which is myself, and thinking may things simultaneously, which is myself." Her fashion is robotic, she wears it like she borrowed it from a mannequin where it fit with greater ease into the mannequins active lifestyle.
He carries with him a regret that he is not something else. He is stopped at a date past which his ownership of him has never moved. He ascends on escalators as if there is something insistent against which he must procrastinate, he is stifled by unformed excuses.
They went to _____ and are planning to go again to see "another" mall. On the telephone she told me they had Starbucks.
I wish I could only ask "Why?" when I wanted to know the answer.
In this intstance, why is provoked out of inquiring mouth noises that form my claiming of space, some way clear of the befuddled march to nonexistence that their life seems to me to be.
Oh they are so friendly, it happens though, that once you get there, there is nothing remotely engaging about their presence.
They are not interested.
Simply, this means that they are not interesting. And they never split up.
They take forever to get to the point of what it is they introduce so portentously to say. Ay mi, there is no point. And she likes to tell me about the people I do not know to whom she has told "so much" about me. And then she lists my interests. I am still making eyecontact with her, thinking this is me, here with you, this is me thinking, you do not give any outward sign of being cauterized from reality and yet you cast burning arrows of ephemera from a loosened hot air balloon.
He is gazing, through some fine mental mist, into the panorama of mountains and the river below us, he nods - it is an outward sign of nothing - from a damp inward placidity.
Like many people from where they come from, conversation is an unexplored theory.
Unlike those I had met previously - ambassadors - who have forewarned me of their proclivity to statement and, in the unlikely event of a diplomatic extension of communication, or return of verbal, their reliance on aggressive habits and one up manship, these two are bereft of anything to state. It doesn't keep them from keeping silent, or paying more attention.
If they never split up, their antennae will fuse. They will hear nothing and as the dark room they will inhabit shrinks they will know with ironclad certainty the thing that they have "always" known, that this is as good as it is.