AT THE CAFE

Thin, blanched face, eyes pale and staring, legs ungainly sprawled across the floor as if redundant, loosed from purpose, he talks.
And his voice is loud, lacks nuance, variation, ill adapted to the space. The place. The other tables busy themselves. People resort to newspapers, books, screens, phones. Each other. Attempts to diffuse a situation they find faintly embarrassing. Resorting to distractions from something they are ashamed to confront.
Not the young man with the insistent, strident voice, the body of late adolescence, the understanding of a very young child.
But their own discomfort.
Their inability to embrace such difference.

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