It's hard when she looks at him like that, says that.
Morris had called him a disgrace. You can have that one, Pop, he thinks.
“I don't either,” Michael says, ashamed and still unable to confront the issue directly, twisting desperately away like it's a hot poker pointed at his eye. “I don't know why this is happening now.”
The familiar churning, panicked feeling is building up in him again, slithering through his body in a sick chill. It's disgusting, he hates it, he always hates it; he wants to peel it off, throw it off, extract it and burn it. He exhales sharply, sits up, and struggles out of his coat. The cold helps him feel less like vomiting.
“Why was I in Sweden, why can I remember that?” he asks himself, face in his hands. “Why did he have to do this? God, I'm such a fuckup, I'm a hypocrite!”