On the left, sofa conversations. Kitchen conversations. The ones that open doors. The ones that change something.
On the right, the drinks table. Everyone standing, crammed together, talking over each other. Nobody’s pouring drinks for anyone. Everyone grabs their own and heads back to their little group.
That’s the feed.
You look around the party, wondering where to put yourself.
The feed? Fine. Plenty going on there, and people get to see you. Keep doing it. A party without a bar is a funeral.
But then you spot that sofa. Things slow down over there. The laughter loosens up along with the ties. Someone kicks off her heels and nobody bats an eyelid.
On the feed, you can rehearse your line. Delete it. Write it again. Find your best angle.
On the sofa, there’s no edit button.
You might run out of words. Say something stupid. Laugh so hard you practically lose control. Realise you’ve spent ten minutes talking about yourself without asking a single question. Completely carried away with yourself.
Or you might hear something you weren’t even looking for. Something that knocks you off your axis.
—Warning. Curves ahead.
Good conversations, the really good ones, have a habit of doing that. They start in one place and end up somewhere else. And what changes isn’t always what you think of the other person.
Nope.
Sometimes it’s what you thought you knew about yourself.
Mind you, you can sit on that sofa and still keep watching the telly. Eyes fixed on the horizon instead of turning your knees towards the person next to you and starting a conversation. Sitting together, each in your own little world.
People make room for you. And you make room for yourself.
—Come on, squeeze up a bit. I’ve got a fat arse.
When there’s closeness, when there’s contact, conversations change. The way you sit sets the pace.
Your posture on that sofa is your positioning as a brand.
Turning my knees, in my case, means daring to take a seat on that sofa. And starting a conversation. Not prospecting. A conversation.
And that’s when you send that DM, or that email, that says more about you than your latest post. Short. No mothball-scented template. Something of yours. Something of theirs, seen through your lens.
—Want some ice?
You don’t need a business card. Nobody swaps business cards at a party. Beer mats, maybe. With a number scribbled in biro and a wine stain making it almost impossible to read. Is that a 3 or a 5? You call anyway.
Two people don’t necessarily make a we. You can spend the whole night sitting next to someone without ever really meeting them.
The conversation is already happening. Whether there’s room for you, you won’t know until you move closer.
And if the thought of doing that makes you more embarrassed than standing at the supermarket checkout, all your shopping on the conveyor belt, the cashier staring at you, the bloke behind you huffing and puffing, while your mum has disappeared to get a carton of milk… I get it.
—You go ahead. My mum’s gone to get some milk.
Lines Aja
Brand Strategist & Verbal Identity Consultant — Las Musas®
weareprimos.com