"Heh. I can tell you why, mija," Marcus offered helpfully. "I'm a big-ass, mean-looking motherfucker. So nervous people... they stay away from me. Scared I'll mess with them. Fuck em up. Other people aren't scared, but they don't think I'm worth talking to. I'm low, to them. Sometimes they try fucking with me to prove a point. Makes 'em feel better about themselves to puff up like that." He shrugged. "Either way, hard to have a real fucking conversation."
It was one of several personal contradictions he dealt with. Marcus did honestly enjoy what he liked to call real conversations. Meaningful interactions with others. Learning about them, sharing about himself. On the other hand, he didn't value them enough to alter his behavior in order to encourage people to actually want to interact with him. Too much of him prided himself on his ability to make others flee, or have his mere presence be enough to warrant threats of violence and automatic distrust. When men instinctively postured around him, or women went on the defensive, that meant something he was doing was having a real effect. In a small way, it was winning without any real effort at all.
It just didn't make for very memorable interactions. "When I first clocked you coming in here, would have bet money you'd run. You seemed like you were gonna."
He walked over to one of the oddly-angled benches and casually positioned himself on it, with his feet flat on the floor and his knees bent, so that he could start doing sit-ups. The activity didn't really halt his conversation any, however. Just gave him the occasional pause between words. "Let me guess... Family had... a fuckton of cash? ...Rich husband, maybe?"
Marcus wasn't actively trying to be offensive with the question, really. It wasn't that he didn't think women could have money on their own merit. She just seemed like the kind of girl who'd never wanted for much, and that usually meant having been taken care of.