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there's a smear of black tucked like a shadow behind his ear. i look at it a second time when i realise it's a tattoo, half covered by his hair.

"...you're right about that," i'm telling him at one point. i hardly know what i'm saying. but i think any normalcy today could hold is already cracking apart from his presence. today, it doesn't seem that normal at all.

he tilts his head just a little bit. it's like i see him a second time; the scar on his lip shaped like a tick-mark, the black peeking behind his ear—two parallel lines, a sharp turn—and the round, grey glasses. behind them, a thin and sharp slit on one of his eyebrows—just a slit, or a second scar? there's something on his ear—a blank piercing, or a freckle? 

"yeah?" it's that word from him, yeah, when the syllables climb upwards near the end and seem to pry out any thought that hasn't yet spilled into the air.

my eyes catch the tattoo again. maybe it's a lightning bolt.

i suppose that's fitting. i think i'm looking at lightning right now. not just the recurring zig-zag, behind his ear, crossing his lip, slitting his brow. he reminds me of lightning; a flash in the sky that turns the night into day, right before it disappears.

everything about him is lightning. that night in the café, waking up to his voice, and to be struck by something so sudden and intense it makes your heartbeat forget its rhythm. 

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