The first thing that came to mind when I saw him was that he was perfectly gluttonous. His protruding stomach did not help my estimation of him. It was round but turgid, as if constantly full. That wasn’t what set me off though: he swaggered when he walked. The man exuded self-confidence. The wine glass in his hand: it never emptied the whole time. He sat down beside Ralph’s mother and leaned in, invading her personal space, but she didn’t seem to mind. The hand gripping the glass was held at arm’s length as if he was trying to gloatingly display it by letting the lights bounce of it with eye-hurting brightness, and it did mind you. You know what was funny though? He looked like shit. I looked away when I realized my lips had curled into a sneer. I ended up looking at the bratty little kid in front of me who kept kicking me under the table. I glowered at him and watched with amusement as his mother tore off a piece of chicken. Her canine winked at me, and although I knew it was just the meat giving her a hard time, it looked very much like a snarl directed at me. I guess I deserved it.