Seth

It’s not every day you see someone with sausage gravy in his hair.

It crept down his brow in thick, white clumps as he opened his mouth and swallowed without any regard for masticating.  I sat across the dining room table from my 25-year-old friend, watching as the streak of white sauce hadn’t diminished his looks in the least.  The once bleach-blonde scene kid had matured into what Esquire of old would hail as the unaffected gentleman: thick, rusty brown head of hair, imperfect in its growth pattern but only slightly disheveled because of it; a prominent brow that when hit by his full eyelashes must’ve made angels weep at the unveiling of the Holy of holies that were not eyes but dark tunnels lit by small embers of a dull flame.  God, I think I loved him once, perhaps I still do, to wax on as I have so, for now he sits across from me submitting himself to another fit.