He was a short Italian punk, but hopefully the latter label has been dropped. He had beautiful blue eyes, piercing and hypnotizing, and dark thick eyebrows and a goatee to match. Each feature looked to be manicured by the Devil.
As maturity is supposed to come with age, so are physical struggles, and if he wasn’t careful, his appearance could soon become softer. However, other men wouldn’t mind his downfall. He did have one vulnerable quirk, though, that could either be seen as confidence or disrespect: he had the strange habit of bringing his own meal to large gatherings.
A boy of specific tastes, and a college dropout. His family owns a landscaping business that could very well be a front that he and is petite blonde bombshell shall soon inherit. Some have all the luck; it makes one wonder if balance exists.
I only caught a glimpse of this woman; she moved with haste, but shouldn’t have been allowed to with the amount of confident grace in her stride. She was difficult to miss; large and tall enough for a professional athlete to court and handle, and she flaunted the fact.
Her long braided brown hair bounced off the middle of her back as she sported a blueish green dress meant for a 19th century southern belle–or two. She strutted away and I wondered if brothels were once again popular.
This fellow was an interesting man; he fidgeted in his small space, hogging the only clear view of the scenic land rising. He was a smoker–his staleness was nauseating–and a drinker, taking advantage of a nice gesture to continue a needed conversation for one, and an unwelcome one for the other.
He was tall, lanky, and dressed too young and ghetto for so many wrinkles and such little hair. I later discovered his thick accent was Cuban as he vividly spilled his escape from the grasps of Castro nearly three decades before. With that in mind, he was excited at the opportunity to return with hopes of progression in tow, and only dreamed of warm weather until he fled back. Yet, he remained in the Northeast, twitching from the stress and explained with bitterness that it was due to his children’s love for snow.
I feel he was constantly searching for another escape, and then again, and again.
He had black curly hair, thick hipster frames to match with thin lenses, and a nervous twitch as if a bass drum needed to be boomed. He had an Asian lover; perhaps he aspired to be like Lennon. His fashion was khaki-based, surely for comfort and not image.
He wrote like me, deep in thought most of the time with only a break to sip or nap. His journal contained drawings of shapes that accompanied his words. The man was a puzzle–or at least he pretended to be.
A skeleton up top, tree trunks and swollen feet below. Yellow eyes, scabbed skin, and a choke in a voice willing to make drastic changes as she fights off tragedy. Past mistakes and a miniature reason to live keeps her strong, but there’s no one to blame other than herself and no one else to fix it. The vice became a near-death addiction. She told me she would go days without a swallow of food, and claimed alcohol was absent at times. It’s hard to believe, but hard not to want to.
The closest thing to a sister who wasn’t of blood lies weak in a hospital bed as we joke about the catheter. Spirits are high, she can still smile at the very least. It helps me picture the jubilant times when she had a bounce in her step, a warm and fun heart and a passion for life.
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.