Micha

Micha was Jewish and rich. Not my words, his. He managed to describe himself like that in almost every other sentence. To mix it up, he sometimes implied it, going for the show don’t tell approach; ‘I live in the centre of London, in a big house’, ‘I normally don’t go to these types of restaurants.’

I made fun about his ways a little, and he enjoyed that. We got along fine.

But then I noticed something unusual about him. As soon as he wasn’t engaged in conversation, or better, as soon as he felt onobserved, he looked disgusted. His eyes and mouth wrinkled up, his eyes small. Not because of anything specific, as far as I could tell.

He lived in a nauseating and nasty world.

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