Hiding

He's on my mind tonight.
I sort of wish you knew him, but then again, it's better that some of you don't.

He hides behind himself in a way I've never seen anyone do before.

Behind glasses.
Behind dreadlocks.
Behind a beard.
Underneath baggy clothes.
He used to be a pretty, clean-shaven teenager.

He's mastered this art of hiding. I've known him for months, and have a hard time bringing his face to mind. I've never been able to tell what he is thinking, and it can be hard to distinguish a smile from a frown.

He smells like sunshine and cheap cigarettes.

When he has finished smoking one of those cheap cigarettes, he is more likely to tuck it away in his pocket than throw it out the window. He's a construction worker, he says. He's just trying to make up for the damage he's caused.

His voice is scratchy and he doesn't move his mouth when he talks. Every other word is profanity. He's good at laughing at himself. Bad at making conversation.

He doesn't know how to open doors for people. Last time we went out to dinner, we did all but tango trying to figure out who would open what door and when. Finally, he ran into the parking lot and threw his arms above his head and screamed, "I am almost twenty-five years old and I don't know how to open an f****** door!" That made me laugh.

There hasn't been a time when I was with him, that he wasn't drinking beer.

He builds luxury homes all day, and works in the ghetto at night. He would rather pour concrete than paint a wall. Twelve and fifteen hour days, six or seven days a week, he claims he is miserable when he's not working. He falls asleep in the bathtub after a long day's work.

He called me the other night, inviting me to a party. He left a rhyme on my voicemail. The goat farm, apparently, would be better than any punk rock show.

He reminds me of a grumpy, old man. I went to dinner with his family on Monday and as we waited for a table, I watched him grab his six year old nephew to try and keep him still. He held Ethan by the arms until Ethan screamed and cried. And without blinking, the growling uncle told Ethan he wouldn't let go until it was time to eat. After dinner, it was the same growling uncle who hollered (there is no other word) at the boys to stay out of the road.

He hides behind himself in a way I've never seen anyone do before. He will not look me in the eye. When he talks to me, he looks at the floor. He looks at the wall behind me. He rubs the bottle of Killian's in his hand, rotates the cigarette between his fingers, runs his hands through Saturn's fur. He would do anything to keep from looking me in the eyes.

Good thing, probably. There's no telling what I'd see if I got a good look into those big blue eyes.

There's no telling what would happen to my heart.