A few more weeks, and This Is Heaven is out. Here, here, the teaser of teasers, John & Alex breaking up---or do they?
Alex would take me to the debate in his car, and I shouldn’t worry, he’ll give me a ride back, if necessary. We didn’t have much time to talk, and he’s sorry and apologizes as usual, and perhaps we could converse in the car. He had some time to think. He needs to share a thought, just a thought.
Ambulance paramedic that he is, or was, he knows the shortcuts of Georgia Beach, and in particular the spruced-up bike path that shares the bridge with the Davis Canal and leads from the parking lot through the ghetto up to Georgia Avenue. So we are supposed to talk, but he’s sitting behind the wheel and doesn’t say a word. People sometimes do this, especially in movies when they want the audience to focus on their effortless silhouette-—the low bridge of his nose with the mildest snub at the tip (not enough for a snub-nose but sufficient for the boy-component in a big brother), the eyelashes which are a bit too long for big brothers, the brows, wide and elongated (each and every single brow-hair perfectly aligned (like he’s employing an invisible, yet acrobatic cat that licks them twice per hour)), the jaw, which isn’t macho but large enough to support the seamless definition of his chin lines, the lips, closed at the moment but wide and misleadingly sensual, his smooth Latino skin, the fitting ears that seem to know everything, the black hair cut short on the side according to the latest fashion (a strange feature in an α-personality otherwise dismissive of trendiness)-—then there’s the prominent back of the head segueing into a muscular neck, the shoulders of course that do the big-brother thing all on their own, the biceps (ditto), triceps (ditto), all of this very much in evidence with him in a green tank top that would match the color of his eyes if anything on the planet could match the color of his eyes-—we arrive at the precipitous drop of his torso along the pecs and abs and down into the groin where the perfect bulge in his shorts is always in evidence due to his-—what he calls his anatomy-—and wrap up with his hirsute thighs and his dirty, sexy sneakers hidden in the pedal space underneath. And don’t forget the big hands on the steering wheel.
|He's always served out of line|
“You’re beautiful,” I say.