She's developed the habit of slipping behind her phone and not looking up. There's always something new to see, an infinite scroll.
From the other room, we hear the eruptions of a horror movie: wild squealing growls and a rumble of strings and drums.
She tells me that one of my cheeks is puffier than the other. I give her what must be a blank or bewildered look, so she repeats herself and peers at me with a semblance of concern. She's so convincing that I actually check in the mirror, but I see nothing out of the ordinary.
We hold a practice interview that fails to simulate the conditions of a real-life interview, unless the real-life interview will be filled with laughter and digressions about books and vacation ideas.
The drink they order is a giant goblet of neon blue liquid.
He displays a flat affect at work. Nothing moves him. He's there for the paycheck. But get him talking about Gary Cooper, and his eyes sparkle. His mouth trembles into a smile.
People conspiring to make each other more blockheaded.