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"I've spent my life sleeping on couches," he says non-chalantly between sips of cola from a chipped glass. "It's not so bad. You get used to the closeness." We've long lost track of where this conversation started, and for a moment I forget this is the first time I've ever met him. He continues unabated.
"It's the closeness that makes it liveable, really." Something outside seems to catch his attention for a moment before he turns his eyes back to the burger in his hand. A bite, and he continues.
"You know, some people know me for being a social butterfly. Honestly, I think I am. But there are just some people I can't seem to talk much around. With them, I just kind of..." He pauses, fighting to find the word. "Just kind of observe."
He smirks, and I smile in response. A waitress comes by to refill his drink and he thanks her.
"Most people," a piece of a fry he's chewing falls out of his mouth, he gives an embarrassed wide-eyed look before cleaning it up and continuing. I chuckle. "Anyway, most people don't me that well. They know what I tell them-- that I draw, I'm a photographer, that I write and play in a punk band." He leans in, "But they don't fucking know me."
I'm a bit shocked by the sudden aggression. "And they never will." He finishes.
He casts his eyes downward, one hand gripping his drink, the gripping the back of his neck. For a moment he refuses to meet my gaze.
"And I don't think I ever want anyone to."
The waitress chooses that time to come by and drop off the check. He suddenly switches gears with a compliment, and great big smile. As if he had no disposition other then sunny.
With a quickness he stands and pulls out his wallet, dropping some money on the table before grabbing his coat. He looks at me for a moment before offering his hand.
"Well, it was nice to meet me." He says. I take his hand and shake firmly. I match his smile for a moment before he turns and leaves without offering his name. I don't mind. It was nice to meet me, too.
