You hate him so damn much. That short little dweeb who follows you around the facility. Always staring, always trying to talk to you. And when he does it's either nonsense or nervous rambling. He fumbles over his words as he stumbles over himself. What a clumsy little shit.
You hate the way he looks. You hate that goofy smile seemingly plastered to his face. You hate the crack in his glasses. Why doesn't he just get them fixed? You hate how neat and tidy his clothes are. They make him look like some kind of stuck up nerd. His little sweater vest isn't cute looking in the least, you swear to yourself.
The worst part? The way he tolerates everything you do. He doesn't mind when you talk shit to him, almost as if it sails right over his head. He never tells you that smoking is unattractive or nag you on about your health like everyone else. No, he insists you smell lovely and that it must be some new perfume you're wearing, rather than the disgusting smell of smoke on your breath. He doesn't retaliate if you take a swing at him. He'll cower down for a bit and be back an hour later.
Why doesn't he fight back? You wish that just once he'd pop you in the mouth. Perhaps it would relieve you of this odd feeling that for whatever God forsaken reason he... likes you.