Writer, musician, predator

He is a stiff man

Like my brother, really

With the controlled emotion of a cement wall

The bark on his face is carved purposely almost like an Amish man & was the color of the ocean 

deep and gray like a gloomy day

The kind of day my friend likes 

Where it is gray on gray on gray and it seems it would never go away 

But she would not like this kind of man

I would imagine him to be the sort that is a writer 

Or a musician

Alone in his house 

Mad with ideas and notes flying off his desk so many piles of them taped to walls and collecting on the floor like snow that he can not even finish one chapter or one line in a song 

Or it could be that he is 

A predator 

Someone who had a skeleton of sorts hanging between a wall somewhere

 but nobody knows about it except for himself   and he hates himself for it 

(in fact)

I can't even write about it it's so secret and everyday that he hates himself for it he 

Starves himself 

Lonely in his house 

But there is a chance this man just lost his wife twenty years ago and desperate with love for her had chosen to stay lonely 

She was a very good cook i imagine and so now without her he eats ravioli out of a can (but sometimes adds Parmesan cheese) 

I'm only guessing of course 

He stands behind me in the line at mejier with today's newspaper and one single yellow banana 

This tells me a lot of things 

1. He has more time on his hands than he wishes he had. He should join a chess club or get a dog with a small bladder so he can take her out to pee. He has so much time on his hands that he goes to the store to buy each meal, separately because he wants to fill the day or 

2. He is a writer like I am and takes brief and purposeful trips out to collect characters for his book & this entire time I am sizing him up he is sizing me up in my baggy shirt and my two clumsy hands full of pizza