He was far too smug for words, which was strange because he seemed to have a monopoly on them. She was far too pretty for him, which was a pity because he demanded all of her attention. She twirled her phone in her hand while he spoke. She was desperate to check the message she'd just got, but he barely put a comma into his sentences, barely used a full stop or a semi-colon.
She sighed, he was an expert on everything, but interesting on nothing. Had she really shagged him on Saturday night? Had she really spent most of Sunday thinking he might be the one? As subtly as possible she checked the time on her phone; Christ she'd only been here twenty minutes, it felt like 2 hours. Twenty minutes! She'd said about twelve words in the time, and he must have said about two million. He’d gone from Welsh border towns to red ears, to weight watchers and that was just in the last few minutes, she couldn't remember what he'd been yacking about before that. His stream of consciousness was spraying conversational bullets in all directions.
How long would she have to give it before she could make an excuse and leave? Another twenty, thirty, forty minutes? She half listened to him while playing with her nails, wondering how she'd chipped the varnish on her index finger. He didn’t seem to notice that she wasn’t listening, didn’t care about his mother’s varicose veins. He just blabbered on and on, laughing at his own jokes and enjoying the drone of his own voice.
She just wanted him to shut up, to shut up and go away, to fuck the fuck right off, the boring, ugly, self-obsessed twat.
Wait he'd stopped talking, there was silence. This was strange. She looked at him. He looked different; she took a moment to work out what it was. He was hurt; something had penetrated his thick skin. Was that a tear in his eye?
For a moment Chloe wondered what was wrong, and then she realised; she must have said those last thoughts out loud.