Him in Front (flash)

Pristine black felt shoulders slope upwards to a high collar that meets salt and pepper Sergeant Major hair. Not one crumb of dandruff, dust, not a cat hair nor a fragment of lint to be seen. A cloud of sharp cologne stings my nose like it probably stung his face this morning in the bathroom mirror. Plastic spectacle ends poke through his neatly cropped hair-without-style. I imagine how the chilly steel arms embrace his face. The bus jostles my eyeline. He remains static, stoic, like a museum bust forged from molten metal, set cold like granite.

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