Stephen Malcolm Doughnut

I'm almost completely unsure what edification means, only that it means something. It's a similar way with almost everything else. You fumble to present something, something uncertain, and you're sick, and you can't look it. You can't barely look, just meekly wait and murmur not. Now, flushed of colour, he narrows his eyes, a once-over, then, dismissively, "Built for a computer at best", and continues on. My neighbour sneezes, unblessed.

Usually, I wait in a café, the same most times, and my man brings 'em to me. He shoves the good ones across the table and holds the others back until I summon them, probably hoping I won't. I don't this time because he's just standing there and I know what that means. I leave, saying nothing, and have one of those tiresome walks of the soul. The experience is one of rain and few people, nice in that way but short on revelation. I feel only the looming of the auction block.

Some drummer, barely in a suit, soundtracked my arrival. I sneered my displeasure and made for the stairs, already regretting my presence. Somehow it all came together in my speech, a certain fashionable cynicism mingling with smirking dopery. I had the lion's choice of indiscretion, but went home with a headache instead.