A succinct wordsmith, he is awkward with silences. Read UNCOMFORTABLE. So, he’ll repeat the same set of questions, despite the repetitive responses. I wouldn’t go as far as to call him a chatter-box but he needs to talk, in order to survive.
Most days, he is brimming with details to share with me. Nothing profound, often only the mundane. But he needs to share. He needs me to know how his day transpired. And he needs to know about mine. Details I consider banal and commonplace, open additional windows of conversation for him. The minutiae of both our lives is probably his raison d’être. And he simply loves quoting my lines back to me, replete with double quotation marks.
His forgetfulness never ceases to annoy me. Ask him to clarify something he’s mentioned only a few minutes and he’ll casually remark, “I forgot!” Sometimes, I think he does it deliberately. He loves to see me get into a tizzy and flustered and all. Occasionally, he enjoys being a sadist like that.