A hefty man if I’m to be kind and correct. He wears sweats–perhaps because his pants no longer fit, or motivation to contribute to society has been lost. His messy hair and scraggly beard–neither growing with any order it would seem–would support the latter. However, paint stains on his attire would signify some sort of employment, unless he spent little of his vast free time decorating a nursery for his newest addition. He’s a baby-face in an adult life introducing a newborn to legacy.
His partner is a manly woman who may have forced the issue to procreate, similar to her neon streaks forcing the punk revolution into a snobbish, egotistical figure not fit for the task, rather just the look.
Both could be respectable if they were less conceded, but for now they remain an example to be tolerated instead of stressed-over.
She’s young, probably in her early-twenties, a tight waist and natural milky skin. An auburn braid hangs to the top of her back, secure and healthy. Her eyes sparkle from behind her sleek and trendy black frames, and her freckles are subtle enough to be endearing while not noticeable enough to stare – though it’s difficult to find a man without at least one eye on her as she graces the room.
Small gages fit her spirit, a long warming smile is always present, as is the distinctive bleeding ink of a tiny shred of tribal heritage displayed on her left arm: beauty on a beauty. Wonderment in the eyes of a free-spirited vegetarian, bubbly and high on life, but perhaps her natural drug of choice changes in the evenings. She should be unattainable to all but the luckiest of alike suitors, however, a pleasant acquaintance worth having to brighten up the day.
If there was a flaw it would be the odd way she repeats the same saying in instant succession. Perhaps this is a defense or a form of comfort to survive the daily diner drudge of serving others, most staring at her backside as she walks away and tends to other tables. Unfortunate for her, a creepy obsession for some regulars.
A man is allowed to commend allure even if there is a lack of interest, for he will always be in love with another through eternity.
There’s actually a grouping of these people inhabiting every corner of two intersections, and most likely under the bridge they man – where there’s a high possibility that other services are offered for extra compensation. However, this one man is particularly noticeable, for he is one-legged.
An amputee without a prosthetic, exposing a filthy deformation at the thigh with back-alley stitching that forms chills just from the idea of grazing . He’s tan from the sun, race, and dirt, and sits in a stolen wheelchair, begging for not only money, but mercy and sympathy. It’s given on a daily basis, and has been for years, but the routine – who once offered their pity – now know his true intentions.
An unmotivated trickster, an actor who performs his sob story in garb of stolen valor only to take advantage of the merciful and use their good graces as a form of payment to feed his fixes.
A strip club regular. A drinker. A user.
A troublemaker. A slim young female with the blessed assets of a curvy woman: a perfect and dangerous combination for desire. Seemingly innocent with a smooth black ponytail and cute frames around her green eyes, but a small candy cane tattooed behind her ear endorses guilty pleasures. She bounces ever so slightly as she walks away.
Two teenagers, sitting in a potential hazard, puddles surround. They’re too young to be true rebels. One has blond strands combed across his forehead and a pastel tank top as if November didn’t matter. The other: a hat reversed, thick frames for good vision, testing out the recently fixed wheel of his skateboard by coasting down the arroyo under a bridge and into black uncertain danger.
He’s a squirrely fellow; I can’t seem to tell if his odor derives from his mouth or body. He fidgets a lot, shakes his hands as if a vice is needed. I’ve been observing him for some time and he has the tendency to whistle and stretch much too often.
His devious smile and snicker show his age, but the experience in his wrinkles does not offer worthy wisdom. He suffered a rough past, and hides his body’s softness to maintain an image that has run its course.
He attempts to conceal worry, yet it just creates suspicion.