Incapable of an impolite gesture, he listened to her performance of “I have a tepid interest in books,” much like he sat stoic and attentive when the park performers forced him to be their audience. Screeching croons and squaks of horns played on. “If I don’t like a book, I’ll stop reading it.” Hostile guitar chords are plucked, “I did like ‘Small Fry’ by Steve Jobs’ daughter.” Twitching his insides, paralyzing his expressions.
She saw no reason to pause. No creases of disapproval on his forehead. She took his aloofness as acceptance. Like the silent, guilted donation of a dollar in a guitar case.
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