Dull
He feels dull. Unable to achieve anything of merit. Pleasant but somewhat disappointing. Dull to speak to, even. Conversations often lapsed, but he had developed an extensive, almost self-generating, stream of patter and no one ever walked away. But he is dull.
This self-perception is, you might be beginning to guess, new to him.
He can’t be that dull, though, can he? He’s a politician, after all. People voted for him. Repeatedly. He’s been on TV, and gets asked back again and again.
He turns away from the window and looks over the spacious office that he’s about to give up. He prefers to think of it that way — giving it up — rather than the alternative. When he leaves the room, he’ll have to ask Sarah to gather his things.
He throws himself down heavily into the carved wooden chair, which is fortunately sturdy enough. It has handled greater crises than this ripple of self-doubt. His suit jacket and loose trouser legs spread around him, giving him a deflated air. But the belt still pinches in the middle, and he feels irritated with everything at once as he pulls at it fruitlessly. Sarah once warned him that they wouldn’t like the extra weight, the public. People, on average, think the overweight are stupid, lazy, untrustworthy. “You can’t fight it. It’s just true,” she said to him.
