https://theringer.com/tyler-gage-vs-will-hunting-who-was-the-more-exceptional-janitor-979e1805a36c#.ngpky0jz7

? If I looked like Matt Damon, I’d just fucking smolder all day. That’d be my whole workday. I’d wake up at 7 a.m., start smoldering, then I wouldn’t stop until, like, 5 p.m. or whenever I left the office. I’d smolder clean through my lunch break. I’m talking 10 solid hours of smoldering. “How was work today, honey?” my wife would ask when I got home. “Tough day,” I’d say, as I plopped down on the couch. “Yeah?” she’d ask, as she sat down next to me, but she’d say it in that way that transforms “yeah” from a tiny word into a back rub in that way that only very empathetic people can. “Yeah,” I’d say. “Lot of smoldering?” she’d ask, genuinely. “So much,” I’d respond, a little frustrated. “How much?” she’d ask. I’d lean back and close my eyes and put my hands on my head. “Look, it’s been a long day. I don’t really wanna talk about it,” I’d say. “I’m just trying to connect,” she’d say. “Just leave it,” I’d say, but I’d say it a little too curtly. She wouldn’t say anything back. She’d get up walk into the kitchen. I’d huff. Then I’d get up and walk over. I’d put my hand on her waist. I wouldn’t be able to see her face, but I’d be able to tell she was crying. “Look, it’s just …” and I’d struggle to find the words. “I don’t know. This smoldering … it’s really getting to me.” She’d turn around but she’d still be looking at the ground. “I’m sorry,” I’d say. “You said you were gonna try to be better,” she’d say. “I know,” I’d say, and I’d apologize again. I’d ask if she forgave me. She’d say she didn’t know. “Come on,” I’d say, and I’d bend down a little so I could get under her eyes and catch her stare. I’d smile. “OK,” she’d say. Then she’d look up at me. And I’d hit her with the best fucking smolder you ever saw.