There’s something about him, something off. It’s dark and dreary and it draws you in. You can’t help but watch him when he sits in the corner, all nonchalant. Quiet. Anti-social. A little like you. You can see his gaze bore into the cracked mirror held together by tape and you can tell that he doesn’t really see his reflection. It always throws you off a little when he wants to partner with you, and looks at you with those slightly empty eyes, and he smiles that crooked smile.
He moves with a loping, unnatural grace. In your mind it’s more like a drunken swagger than anything else, but somehow he manages to turn the inebriated swaying into something you can’t tear your eyes away from. It’s mesmerizing. Like watching a snake charmer tease its viper out of the shadows. And he strikes so fast that you can’t help but think that the metaphor was particularly apt.
He doesn’t talk much. But you know he smokes. You can smell it on his breath, in his clothing, it clings to his skin like the unspoken words lingering on his tongue. He’s nice enough to you, nurturing, encouraging, but you can’t help but see the dark spots eating away at his lungs, the decay inside the glimpses you catch of his lean, toned body.
You’ve accepted that you’ll never know what his intentions are, and that you’ll never know anything more about him than what he brings to your chance encounters. You know that he doesn’t expect anything from you, only that he likes to be with you when you’re around. It’s a strange companionship you’ve forged unwittingly. A wordless agreement. When he’s there and you show up, you work together. Train together. Sweat and suffer, together. It almost doesn’t matter that there’s something about him, something off.
Nothing really matters when he smiles that crooked smile.
[unedited]
