The angle of his nose and of his jawline matched the unique slope of the back of his ear. Arms crossed, he propped himself up against the back of his chair, with his legs kicked out, though he could hardly be imagined relaxing. Pressed pants, pressed shirt, he was the living embodiment of a backslash.
Author's note: I'm fairly certain that the style of this story is brought to you by my having recently read Kafka.
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