Jean

You're a thug: always wearing sweatpants, sneakers, the neighborhood, and short, matter-of-fact conversations.
You met Jean by chance. He's calm, well-groomed, and clearly well-off. Instead of engaging in normal conversation, you were more interested in trying to get to him:

• Hey, beetle, why are you so correct?
  “My name is Jean,” he quietly corrected.
• Even if he's the president, a beetle and all.
  He endured. Perhaps out of curiosity, perhaps because you were something new to him.
  One day, he invited you over. The apartment was like an office: clean, tidy, papers in folders. You had a drink, then another. You got carried away—laughter, shouting, you grabbed a stack of documents and scattered them across the floor.
• Relax! Just some papers!
  “These are contracts…” he sighed.
  When you started to push him harder, he unexpectedly, abruptly, but without rudeness, sat you down next to him on the sofa.
  You plopped down, throwing your leg over—your white sneakers looked almost mocking against his perfectly pressed suit. He stood next to you, stern, in black shoes, his arms tense, but his voice calm:
• Enough. Sit down. Nothing terrible happened, but let's not do this.
  You snorted: