A Beautiful Man

He lies very still, deep in sleep. The sound of his breathing is the only thing to be heard, and is very faint, very hard to detect unless my ear is close to his face. His soft breathing is slow, relaxed. He's slumbering deep.

He must be dreaming now. His eyelids rapidly flutter. His mouth is moving, as if he's talking to someone. His full, pink lips are having a silent conversation with someone only he can see. I wonder what he's dreaming about. Possibly sports, maybe friends, maybe enemies.

As quickly as it began, it's over. His entire body shakes as his leg spasms. He responds by turning his head to the right, and then back to the center again. He's still asleep and doesn't realize he's being watched. Being studied. A beautiful man, oblivious to all.

Or is he? Just like that, he awakens. He opens his deep, dark eyes, drowsy with sleep, and sits up. He stretches his long, muscular arms to their full length and looks around. He notices me watching him but only asks what time it is as he opens his mouth wide in a yawn.

He pulls himself out of the big, orange recliner, clicks off the television, and heads into his room to get changed for work. When he reenters the living room, he has on the familiar staff shirt, khaki shorts, Syracuse cap, and white sneakers.

He grabs his backpack off the floor and straps it onto his torso. He picks up his key chain and shoves it into his right pocket. He pats himself down to make sure he's got everything- wallet, keys, cell phone.

Certain that he does, he walks by me, pats my cheek, and heads toward the door. And he's gone.