He squints at the sudden light, although his office hadn't been pitch black. Maybe his eyes had just adjusted to the darkness of the hallway, because standing here with the small desk lamp on feels like standing in the bright sunlight. And for some reason, he feels the need to shy away from anything too bright, too stark. He has to resist the urge to shield his eyes. They'll adjust to the brightness soon enough, and he doesn't want Don thinking he's crazy.
Funny how he cares about Don thinking he's sane when he doesn't particularly care (or at least pretends or tells himself that he doesn't care) about anyone else thinking so. He's always assumed that the people here at SC&P consider him to be nuts anyway; nuts in a beneficial way, maybe, for creating the ads he does, but nuts nonetheless. Maybe they think it more so now that he's come back from the war. Or maybe, due to his quietude of late, they think he's been centered and grounded by his time away.
If they think that, their perceptions are obviously amiss. But he doesn't want to correct them of their misconceptions, if them believing whatever they want about him means that they leave him alone, for the most part.
"Shoes..."
He mutters it like it's a completely foreign word, like he has no idea why Don would even be suggesting such a thing, and then looks down at his feet, shaking his head. "I don't usually wear shoes when I'm here at night," he explains, though Don hasn't asked for an explanation. "It's quieter this way."
And why should someone who's normally so brash and larger-than-life and, yes, downright irritatingly noisy at times, care about being quiet? Why should that be his main consideration, when there should certainly be other things on his mind? He's not sure himself, and he doesn't imagine Don will give it much thought, either. Don's likely to chalk it up to Ginsberg being an eccentric, and go on about his life.
Does he want Don to ignore him, just like everyone else does? He's not sure. He'd had that conversation with Don, that odd, almost confrontational discussion, but had anything really come of it? They hadn't spoken again. And yet...
He feels that they'd had some kind of connection there in Don's office that he wants to replicate. He doubts Don wants that, but that doesn't mean he won't try. He's always been determinedly stubborn, always pushing the boundaries. This is just another one of those instances in which he'll do so.
"I was thinking about having some coffee. Or tea. Or something," he says, although that's a lie he's fabricated just now, and that's probably evident on his face. "You want something?"
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Funny how he cares about Don thinking he's sane when he doesn't particularly care (or at least pretends or tells himself that he doesn't care) about anyone else thinking so. He's always assumed that the people here at SC&P consider him to be nuts anyway; nuts in a beneficial way, maybe, for creating the ads he does, but nuts nonetheless. Maybe they think it more so now that he's come back from the war. Or maybe, due to his quietude of late, they think he's been centered and grounded by his time away.
If they think that, their perceptions are obviously amiss. But he doesn't want to correct them of their misconceptions, if them believing whatever they want about him means that they leave him alone, for the most part.
"Shoes..."
He mutters it like it's a completely foreign word, like he has no idea why Don would even be suggesting such a thing, and then looks down at his feet, shaking his head. "I don't usually wear shoes when I'm here at night," he explains, though Don hasn't asked for an explanation. "It's quieter this way."
And why should someone who's normally so brash and larger-than-life and, yes, downright irritatingly noisy at times, care about being quiet? Why should that be his main consideration, when there should certainly be other things on his mind? He's not sure himself, and he doesn't imagine Don will give it much thought, either. Don's likely to chalk it up to Ginsberg being an eccentric, and go on about his life.
Does he want Don to ignore him, just like everyone else does? He's not sure. He'd had that conversation with Don, that odd, almost confrontational discussion, but had anything really come of it? They hadn't spoken again. And yet...
He feels that they'd had some kind of connection there in Don's office that he wants to replicate. He doubts Don wants that, but that doesn't mean he won't try. He's always been determinedly stubborn, always pushing the boundaries. This is just another one of those instances in which he'll do so.
"I was thinking about having some coffee. Or tea. Or something," he says, although that's a lie he's fabricated just now, and that's probably evident on his face. "You want something?"