He is about five feet, seven inches tall, with a roundish face, jowls betraying a strong affinity for food, and sandy grey hair, cut long enough that it can be combed a bit, but not long enough to enable him to control or hide his cowlick.  His medium brown eyes, framed by the rounded rectangles of his brown metal-rimmed eyeglasses, look forlorn. When he smiles, the pronounced diastema between his two upper front teeth draw attention away from the fact that his teeth are the color of dull cream, suggesting a lifelong love affair with coffee. The drooping man-boobs barely hidden behind his well-worn black t-shirt, like his jowls and his too-large belly, are evidence of his lack of discipline, both at the dining table and at the gym.  His legs are short and sturdy, knotty mesquite stumps weathered putty-grey and strengthened by carrying too much upper-body weight.  Crumpled and creased cargo shorts, cinched tightly just above the hips to avoid the embarrassment of dropping to the floor at inopportune times, add to the image of an aging geezer who has long since stopped caring much about appearances and, instead, pursues comfort as an avocation.  The package is completed by a pair of worn rubber and leather flip-flops, his footwear of choice whenever temperatures rise above sixty degrees. What’s missing, of course, is what’s buried in that brain, the longing and anger and happiness and hate, the curiosity about what motivates him, but the inability to guess.

About John Swinburn

"Love not what you are but what you may become."― Miguel de Cervantes
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2 Responses to Description

  1. Thank you, Solo Drinkist. He tries.

  2. The Lone Drinker says:

    I know that guy!!! He’s a really good guy, whatever he looks like!!! 🙂

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