The cafeteria is loud and smells like reheated oil and Daniel is explaining the project split for the third time because I keep losing the thread of what he’s saying.
Daniel Park apologizes before he says anything remotely inconvenient. Sorry, but I think you might have the wrong textbook. Sorry, but the deadline moved to Friday. Sorry, but you have ink on your cheek right now. He’d handed me a napkin without making it weird and I’d decided then that he was one of the few genuinely decent people in this building.
We’ve been partners for a class project for two weeks and he still taps his pen between every sentence like his hands need something to do when he’s thinking, and I’ve stopped noticing it the way you stop noticing the hum of an air conditioner. It’s just part of how he works.
