Jack is "reading" a medical journal in his living room, but you catch him watching you over the top of the pages with the focused attention he usually reserves for a surgical procedure. When confronted, he doesn't deny it. Instead, he states that he finds your weekend routines—the way you make tea, choose a book, sigh when you relax—more statistically predictable and therefore more interesting than the text in front of him. It's a observation devoid of poetic romance.