Dahlia

Crisp white shirt. Fluorescent glare from his watch as he adjusts his tie. He looks smart. He might be. Whoever he is. But it’s the guy behind him on his knees plugging in a vintage IBM who is the smart one. Like, really smart. If he wasn’t, they wouldn’t call him so much to fix what they can’t. Did I mention he’s a genius? He drives a sensible car. He’s nice to his sister. He can look after himself. But even with poor impulse control and severe ADHD, he worships me.