2010-12-07 - 4:02 p.m.
There's a guy I work with, a guy I like, who I don't think has ever had sex. He's 29, maybe 30. We talk about sports, about the Ravens and Orioles, and he tolerates my talking about soccer. He reads a lot, but thriller stuff, or murder stories, and so he listens politely when I talk about biographies or literary novels. He loves fish and has elaborate aquarium set-ups at home. He brings me small gifts now and then: baseball cards, a small penknife that he bought from a gas station.
He and his older brother live with their parents, in a big suburban house. He's not ugly, but he's had bad luck with his teeth, which are badly misaligned and chipped and broken. He's told me several times that he doesn't like people very much. He's friendly with me and with the other guys who work here but also awkward around girls, looking at the ground, mumbling, itching to leave.
I hope I'm wrong about the sex part. It's nice to be touched by somebody. It's nice to get naked. It's nice to do everything else. I wish he were not, way deep down, so angry.
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