I told him I didn’t have a cigarette. He said “thanks anyway” and went back to his beer and his paper. Something seemed off. This guy was too plain. Singularly unremarkable. Average height, average build, average looks. He even had what my dad used to call an “Omaha accent”. Apparently, people from Omaha sound neutral, like they could be from everywhere. Their accents are unplaceable. That’s supposed to be why so many goddamned telemarketing companies set up shop in Nebraska. I don’t know, I’ve never been there. I never want to go there. I don’t know where my dad gets this shit. But everything about this guy screamed professional. If I wasn’t so on edge, I don’t think I ever would have caught it. This takes work. Only years of practice could make someone this forgettable. Omaha was here to kill me. I had to get the fuck out of here.