fishbeer

Dec 12 2010 11:44 am

warmish

He dragged on the cigarette like he was taking a drink, filling the volume of his mouth with smoke, sated.  He looked in the mirror and saw a lot of hair and leaned closer, blinking in the smoke, to examine his face.  The bed in the background, the headboard out of focus and small, the upholstered chair in the corner a red smudge, the washed out white glow of the two lamps on the night tables.  He was an inch from the mirror and all he could see was the surface of his skin, the freckle and the pore.  He moved his attention to an eyebrow and was surprised by its complexity. 


He thought for a second that he looked like Tilda Swinton, but he didn’t.  At all. 

 

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