Him
He tossed his big head back with a twist of wide, ugly, grinning lips. He kept talking in a gravely incisive tone about how Caliban is the natural bestial projection. His sandy hair, his coarse tweedy brown jacket, his burlap – texured voice, the lot of it annoying. Why am I attracted to his naughty, mischevious boy genius, and the inconsistent white hairless skin of his legs? His short puffy stubbed fingers – and those god awful carpet slippers? Beer he drinks, and rambles on, and smoking Lucky Strikes in a black holder, gesticulating with a white new cigarette in his hand, holding matches, and crackling brilliant utterances –
I think I love him
