I turn, and there he is, walking back towards me. It’s a sight I’d love to photograph if I hadn’t lost the use of my body after the last intense bout of sex. He’s slim, with an almost coltish grace, all long legs and wide shoulders. His face is heart-shaped, with high cheekbones and a lush mouth, and his odd eyes look quizzically at me—one blue, one green. They give him a quirky look, as if he has two people in that one slim body. If he does, both of them are laid-back.
He winks at me with the customary smile on his face. It’s puzzling because I’ve always before found people who smile all the time to be a little unnerving. Like if the circumstances changed and a zombie drug was released, they’d be first in the queue to eat you.
But not him. I’ve found in the last few weeks of knowing him that he has a multitude of smiles that stretch those full lips. I like his quizzical grin, as well as the ones that stretch his mouth in the second after he’s broken out into his lazy laughter. I even like the wry ones when he’s teasing me. But my favourite is the one he has now—relaxed and languorous and quite simply happy. I’ve never met anyone like Ziggy Tuesday, with his capacity to live in the moment.
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