Gyros Peter
Sauce salad?
Please can you draw it?His face was strong-boned, yet delicate — this due to his tight, full mouth, high cheekbones and thin, black brows sat beneath soft, mousy brown hair. His eyes were blue and beyond description. In them was something clear and substantial, so that he often seemed to be seeing more than what he was actually looking at. Both a visionary and a genius all in one package; the ultimate package.
The night had ended, but I kept talking, talking, to fill the room and fog my own pain. My words sounded stupid, specious. Finally, I just shut myself up. That was so much easier, just being there with him in the stillness. After the room cleared, I stood to go, and I reached down to him. He was so small: the media, that great shark, had eaten away so much of him. His arms reached up and pulled my face into his neck. We stayed like that — joined without words — for minutes; then he whispered, “I don’t want you to feel bad.” Tears I hadn’t known were there slid out of my eyes, wetting his loose skin and V-necked jumper. I tightened my arms around him, tightened my closed eyelids, and promised (lied), “I won’t.”