He sits right there. Every morning he just fucking sits there at breakfast, cool as a cucumber. As if I don't notice. As if I won't notice. How can he think his frog-eyed glasses and over-piliferous hair could escape my attention? On top of that, he launches himself at me every other minute, hurling insults and fist and minions willy-nilly, blind to the unforgiving sharpness of castle décor. I thought one wore glasses to improve such things. And of course I notice, how could I not? He's mine, my beautiful enemy, and to that, at least, he is not blind.