October 15, 2011 in Wordsmoker Short Fiction
I ripped the page out of the SPIN magazine and put it on my wall. I was sixteen and the photo made me want to stare at it. The man in the photo was lying on an Oriental rug and gazing into the camera. He wore a heathered T-shirt and one of his arms was hooked beneath the back of his head. The sleeve rode up and you could see a hint of hair. His face was kind and rumpled, slightly melancholy, warm like a just shed shirt. He was not pretty. He was soft.