As soon as he started arguing with himself, I adverted my eyes so as not to make it obvious that I was eavesdropping on his externalized internal conflict: I don't really know what he looked like. So let's imagine it was John Goodman from The Big Lebowski who spoke to himself--first meekly, then vengefully--amid all the gathered junk and bad music.
"No, I really don't, I don't think it really smells like bacon at--"
"It smells like bacon!"
He threw something down at the racks of CDs--an air freshener? the newest Dirty Projectors record?--like it disgusted him just to touch it, then calmly continued to browse.
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