Hick

He grew up assuming others had a right to speak before he spoke. He grew up in a region named Not Really.

He eats too fast in restaurants, walks too slowly in cities, does his own repairs. Elegance makes him claustrophobic; opulence, morose.

The entitled fascinate him. He watches them. Shown evidence who he is and what he does might matter, he doubts it.

I know him: he hangs on to worn-out things too long, for at his house of fears, someone’s always about to break in and confiscate it all.

The grin—too broad. The stare— too intense. He embarrasses me. There he is—hanging back, watching. Oaf.