We are uncomfortable in the theater. "I don't like all the people facing the same way," he says, "it's not natural."
"I don't like having my back to the door."
He doesn't trust anyone. I don't trust anyone but him.
Once, with drunken honesty, he revealed "I have a bad heart." He tore the flower his mother had given me. He tore it to pieces, then he smoked a cigarette.
How sad the porch light made him look.