Amory is kind of an ass. You could call that the axiom of his existence. Yet things do shift depending on what kind of eyes the viewer chooses to wear, or what faces Amory decides to try on. Right now it's not a matter of choice, as he find his attention clinging to the doctor like static.

Though his lips feel like heavy lead, Amory's words gradually shift from awkward to light and easily, tumbling into the air between them. "Thanks. I mean it," he adds, as he steps to the end of the counter to reach for the little brown sugar packets. "Really, ask Chase. Normally I despise your type."

Amory never takes sugar in his coffee, strange.