He touched his face. Was that what he looked like to everyone else? He couldn't deny it. None of his past girlfriends had lasted more than a few days; they had all asked to break up with him within a week.
And they had all said the exact same thing about him: "You're not a boyfriend. You're a mindless, insensitive brick. You don't know how to make a woman happy."
He didn't understand it: he had memorized all their needs and preferences and provided them in silence, without making a big show of it. Were they not happy? Were his silent contributions worthless when compared to the hypocritical, insincere sweet-nothings and empty promises of other men?
