I watched him write a long long letter to Noam Chomsky and then fold away his writing table and slide it under his bed. He stood up too quickly, or at least that's what it looked like, as he had quickly bought his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose, squeezing.
"Anything the matter?"
"Not that I can recall."
He sat back down on the bed and picked up a magazine. As he flipped through it, a single tear made a loud wet snap on a page where there was an ad for jeans, or perfume, or whatever black-and-white pictures of a Parisian window are supposed to sell.