R * D
He has overslept again. He is a chronic oversleeper.
I touch my fingers very lightly to the piano keys, pausing a moment before I begin. I am unsure of emotions such as amusement, but something akin to laughter bubbles in my chest when he slams the door open, hair all fluffy, to bellow my name.
I must say the fluffy hair is endearing. He is a louse, of course. I find his taste in clothes awful, and I am not the only one who thinks so-that horrid Beck who killed my father refers to him as "that crow guy" because of his taste for black attire.
And yet when I wake him and he slams into the room like a mistral, his hair fluffy, he looks almost trustworthy.
There is something about him, something about the way he strides purposefully off the elevator and bosses us around. There is something about the way he looks when he sips a drink, as if he savored every minute. He is pleasing to look at, of course. I think perhaps it is his nose that saves his face from both perfection and ugliness. Or maybe his jaw, he has a strong jaw. But what I...like...best...is his eyes, their depth, their dark. I must admit they are very beautiful eyes.
All this confuses me, as it is hardly for me to care about one person or another, but he is endearing in his loutishness. He is a smooth talker and can be quite charming when he wants to be, but his true charm lies in his sense of honor and his stubbornness, his rules and his complaints.
My father never obtained the full knowledge of my operation or how I think, and so I do not know why I wonder things like what Roger Smith dreams of or what he looks like when he is asleep, which he has been for over twenty more minutes now.
I place my hands on the keys, then look at his door, imagining how the sins of the city might melt from his face when asleep.
Well...(I shut the piano.)...maybe I won't.