He’s a mystery, so I define him with the scraps I can.
He’s charming, but in a dusty way, like the chimes of an old clock. He’s also rustic, a tumbleweed of bad grammar and tasteless analogies. He answers the phone with a lazy “Yello?” and calls lunch “dinner.” He’s the type who has worn the same pair of Dr. Martens for 15 years, socks spilling out of the holes in the sides, but he can’t throw them away because he’s loyal.
“I love you,” he murmurs before turning over and falling asleep.