A lifeless rib, make it mine, all mine. The man is aging and ill-tempered, he stands Godlike and erect, fair shoulders and a neat gray shirt with buttons. A small, light brown freckle underneath his left eye. He has a light beard and sad eyes, like mine. I look at an anonymous book, I look up, the man feverishly responds to the woman in charge who appeared like a phantom in a dark doorway. It's subtle art to 'people watch' as I sit in my cocoon near the windows, quiet as a mouse. His unknown disobedience has warranted a rasp lecture and a pointed finger. He is now standing there like a statue in an unhappy Roman courtyard.
The woman has a cluster of hyacinthin locks and her forelocks are lighter and in neat clusters, reddish brown is eye-appealing, she is short and she has a plump backside, a perfect shape, her pencil skirt matches her overall resplendence, she is smart and attractive, eyes sublime, she's the boss, I like that.
I'm window gazing and 'people watching', a flood of church people went by, a brisk struggle for one obese woman in miniature clothes, my deceased and black eyes don't blink, I'm disheveled, a long sleeve shirt with a car on it, I think it was my brother's, it's way too big, I have a shirt over it, a faded gray Guinness shirt, something Shane MacGowan would wear, my puke-yellow and greenish rust-colored Carhartt hoodie is in my lap, camouflage shorts and long black socks pulled all the way up, making me look like I have on Nonito Donaire boxing stockings, blue Adidas ZX 750's, I'm golden headed and have on monstrous black glasses that everyone hates.