He saw no way of winning this. If he refused then he demonstrated a clear bias toward the younger and prettier applicant; he proved that lipstick and low-cut shirts could sway him. If he volunteered then he'd just make things worse again, and continue doing whatever he had done to anger her, since it was a thing lost on him, occurring at a different tier of understanding than that on which he operated. 

He didn't know what she was trying to prove, but she'd done it. She'd won whatever game she was playing in her head, a game whose rule-book she refused to let him read; or in which he was illiterate. She'd won. His will to be helpful, to be outspoken, to socialize and to volunteer selflessly, was sundered. Already he felt his cocoon healing from the wounds, and growing thicker. That would teach him for trying to break free.

"Do what you want"? No; too aggressive. "[color=8d97bf]Go ahead,[/color]" he said, bringing the earpiece to his head, plugging it in there. Armed with a nonchalance in the fluidity of his arm, he set out to prove it didn't hurt. He turned away from her, watching through the glass and into the other room.

Why couldn't it be easy? As easy with Ona and his other rare friends as it was with the people in the interview chairs, between the sterile white walls. All he would need to do is——flip a switch. Set the Emotional Attachment dial down to zero, work his magic, get what he wants out of them, and then discard them like a boring wallpaper. He wished he could do that. He wished it was as easy for him as surely it was for the hand-shakers, the boot-kissers, the bad-joke-snickerers at the very top of the company, where their suits were designer-brand and tailored immaculately. Where they earned enough money to fill any holes burned into their chests. But for a lowly little termite like him, one of the millions gnawing at the wood-pulp of the city, it could only ever be a wish.