Developing Michael Brillo

Seat in the corner. Lowering his head with his body, his eyes searching the room from under his brow, the cushion let out a sigh with his weight. His right ankle found its way, as it always does, to his left knee, dangling foot drawing circles in the stale air. Then it stopped. It was difficult to adjust his gaze with such a beautiful creature sitting across from him. Her honeycomb curls reminded him of Lacey’s, and the way they tickled his collarbone at night. She looked up. Clearing his throat, he hid his cuticles in his palms. Some were cracked with dried blood, others smudged black from last night’s concrete bed.