“Oh, fine. I have at least ten coasters that I can currently count from where I’m sitting.”

“How about remote controls? Are they strewn around the room? Resting in a designated basket . . .?”

“Mmmmrrhphhprmrhr.”

“What was that you’re mumbling?”

“I said that I keep my remote controls arranged by size.”

“Ha! See! I rest my case. You’re a deeply organized person!”

“This is all because I’ve learned how to manage myself. After the fourth coffee table I ruined with drink rings, I realized that coasters were less expensive than new coffee tables. I dress up for business meetings because . . . well, it’s like stage makeup, I guess. And it’s ritualistic. I know that I need to be focused and aware and on my game when I’m doing work-related stuff, so I dress up in the whole nine. All the way down to the pocket square.”

“Wow. Sounds like you make a lot of rules for yourself.”

“I have to. Or else everything goes down the shitter.”

“So, you’ve been living this lifestyle for five or six years?”

“Yup.”

“What changed six years ago?”

“I . . . had something really embarrassing happen and realized that I needed to change things up.”

“Oh, come on, Hoffman. You can’t just leave a gem like that in the middle of the trail and expect me not to pick it up.”

“What?”

“You had ‘something really embarrassing happen’. You obviously have to tell me what it was.”

“I . . . ugh.”

“Well, why did you mention it, then!”

“No, no. I can tell you. I just need to adjust to the fact that you’re going to fully see me as a cut-up from here on out.”

“Hoffman, please refer once again to the number of pocket squares currently in your possession. You’re clearly not a cut-up. You graduated college. You’re good at your job. You keep in touch with your friends and family. I bet you jog, right? You strike me as a jogger.”

“And once again, I can’t tell if you’re making fun of me or not.”

“Just like God intended. But for real though, if you don’t actually want to tell me, you don’t have to.”