Caucasian male, late 30s, maybe early 40s, easily 6' 4", wearing a two toned Wetskins rain jacket, hiking shoes, and rumpled jeans pulled from the clean clothes that made it from the washer to the floor but no further. A robust complexion, wind-worn, ruffled "hood" hair, receding slightly, a small thin disc in the back. You have strong hands, working hands, and you breathe through your mouth like a little boy sleeping. Your bookmark is a gift tag with a hole punched in the top left hand corner, a cartoon boy waving, "Hello!" You don't wear a ring. When we cross between Broadview and Castle Frank you look into the sunshine like you wish you could be outside playing.
Page 129:
The Human Stain, Philip Roth, (Vintage)
For three hours she held Coleman entranced by her comedy, her outrage, her hair, and by her flair for manufacturing excitement, by a frenzied, untrained adolescent intellect and an actressy ability to enkindle herself and believe her every exaggeration that made Coleman--a cunning self-concoction if ever there was one, a product on which no one but he held a patent--feel by comparison like somebody with no conception of himself at all.
You smell fresh. You look like the kind of man who washes the dishes right after dinner, maybe even as you're cooking. I think you were raised well. Is your bottom lip moving slightly as you read? Your sideburns are on their way to becoming 70s Dad. There's that picture I love. We're in England. I'm four, my tiny wet head next to yours, your sideburns tickling my cheek. A horse sprints by in the background.
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