His face was tired and scruffy, as if comfortable in his own dirty skin. I assumed he was bull-legged; for a reason never explained to me, he walks with a slight limp, though his leg has never been injured. This made his vintage leather jacket sway to a rhythm all its own.
When talking it seemed like he had all the answers, and that they were as simple (and logical) as common sense.
“Why do I have to change, if you wont?” He calmly questioned during a small argument I eventually lost.
He then took a last drag of his full strength cigarette, flicked the rest into the damp dirt, turned his head, and gave me a joking smile.
March 2007 I love this boy.
This is part of a series type project. The next one is titled which is the next peice.