“I’m just wondering why no one likes me.” The man in orange shifted in his seat, settling back into his preferred pose—straight back, feet flat on the floor, hands clasped before him. Like an idol awaiting worship, like an award on a mantle. He coughed daintily into his clasped fist, then placed his hand back on the table with its partner. “Excuse me. I’m a good guy. I read. I like cats. I want to see the world. I was always good with girls – no stuttering phase, no fumbling for words. Everyone always loved me.”
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