Brandon

Kept a moleskin journal on him at all times in order to keep track of everything. His kids, ex-wife, younger girlfriend, demanding job, proffered awards, student emails, cinematic projects, women he was fucking, personal fitness statistics, weather reports, economic data, mathematical theories. Not yet middle aged and handsome, but with a growing weariness that sloped down either side of his mouth. Another apt assessment would be the appearance of one who “kept his nose to the grindstone.” Having worked hard, he wore his emotions like a badge of honor: impatient, tired, curmudgeonly, smug, beguiling, proud, begrudging. It would be a disservice to paint him in only two dimensions, though he could be very trying at times. One time, while hungover, he dropped an empty latte mug on the floor of the shop and it shattered. For the first time, embarrassment like vines crawled over his face. His head hung lower that day.