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He put his sandwich down on the bag it had come in and rolled over on his hip, so he faced her directly. It was an open posture, almost welcoming. “I’m driving you nuts,” he said. “I don’t talk enough about myself.”
Bingo, she thought.
“I’m not used to it,” he said when she didn’t reply. “I’ve never been terribly outgoing, most of my social life revolved around people I worked with, and I’m just not good at casual talk except the joking kind.”
“Well, I can understand that, I guess. And I’ve been told often enough that I ask too many questions.”
He gave her a crooked smile. “My sense of humor would probably appall most civilians.”
At that she nodded and laughed. “I know the kind you mean. We shared it in the press room. We didn’t dare tell those jokes to outsiders.”
“Exactly.”
“But that’s how you deal with the ugliness,” she said presently. “With bad jokes about things that most people wouldn’t find funny at all.”
“Yeah. And there’s a lot of ugliness.”
She shook herself, realizing that she was in danger of leading them to discuss that stuff. A lot of which she had tried to forget. “Sorry. Let’s move on, as they say.”
For now, anyway. His momentary hesitation might mean nothing. And his explanations seemed valid. He was just a closemouthed man. He wasn’t the first she’d ever met.
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