I'm secretly, for one instant only, glad this social worker is a man. He has long, disarrayed hair, and jubilant but somehow still guarded eyes. He has certain veins that stand out. His leather jacket creaks a little when he moves in this quiet room. This is a man of passion, I find myself thinking. I find myself magnetized a little bit by this man, perhaps in spite of the fact that he's a social worker. He looks older than you're supposed to be in this society, but just about the right age for smoking and going to the grocery store, maybe even fishing. I hate fishing, but some giddy little guppy in my gut tells me it would be fun to fish with this cat. Dumb, I guess.