His eyes are brown. Hazel, when it’s bright, when light floods the room overlooking the park. They remind you of your father’s. He looks vaguely like him all around. Face: fleshy, honest. Skin: brown. Eyebrows, both thick and sparse at once, taking up a lot of room on his face, without actually being heavy, each hair declaring independence on its own patch of skin. Pioneers, frontiersmen. Under the eyes he has bags and you wonder what a dentist’s assistant lies awake worrying about when all he does is hold instruments of pain for someone else to inflict, isn’t his whole job to scrape coffee off your teeth. Fleshy moles. Your dad had them too, dotting his neck, and this guy shares your abomination. You get yours lasered off. Insurance doesn’t kick in a dime.
You are attracted to him. Men who remind you of your father always draw your eye. When you were a kid you tried to get a glimpse of his dick a lot, but he wasn’t really the kind to parade around naked like your mother. You saw it once, shriveled, hairy, beautiful, but there was no satisfaction in this because by then he was already sick and his eyes were yellow and he looked fuzzy and confused and he’d just forgotten to button up his striped pajama bottoms after he’d peed and there was a spot of yellow urine on his pants and this wasn’t how you’d wanted to see his dick. It had looked nothing like yours. Continue reading