He hesitates. Runs a slow, self-conscious hand through his hair. “Do they . . . really look bad? My clothes, I mean.” I’m dumbfounded—as much by the question as the fact that he’s asking me. “You look how you always look, Julius,” I manage. His eyes are wary. “And how is that?” “Completely pretentious,” I say. I shouldn’t elaborate any further, but something about the stiffness of his posture, the rare vulnerability in his face, makes me add: “In a nice way though.” Then I bite down on my tongue and make a quick exit before I can say anything else I’ll regret.
