He is gesticulating drunk. Hands flapping like two fleshy
paddles meant to flop onto someone’s face, unintentionally or not. They brush within
half-an-inch of his partner who waits patiently for the right moment to pull
his leash.
He asks direct questions, pointed questions, as if he is genuinely interested in his companions, the people that happen to be nearby; and they, in their alcohol soaked naivety, will willingly give him the answers he requires.
Later, when you noticed he is drinking too slowly and he still hasn’t left, and he might just order another drink, he will dissect what you told him about yourself and what you do, according to his own logic, so you know the chain of command and everyone remains in their rightful place. Mostly, though, the man talks about himself because, to him, his stories, his dreams and his desires warrant more attention than anybody else’s. At least until he isn’t allowed to do so anymore.
Christian Martius (2015)
He asks direct questions, pointed questions, as if he is genuinely interested in his companions, the people that happen to be nearby; and they, in their alcohol soaked naivety, will willingly give him the answers he requires.
Later, when you noticed he is drinking too slowly and he still hasn’t left, and he might just order another drink, he will dissect what you told him about yourself and what you do, according to his own logic, so you know the chain of command and everyone remains in their rightful place. Mostly, though, the man talks about himself because, to him, his stories, his dreams and his desires warrant more attention than anybody else’s. At least until he isn’t allowed to do so anymore.
Christian Martius (2015)
