Lawrence is the boy who lives in my brain and let’s me know when to be ashamed.
He’s kinda fat.
Not clinically, mind you.
The kind of former fat that lingers like a sore.
The fat that looks like it might have once been pluckish but now just looks uncomfortable. Baby fat long overstaying its welcome and growing in steady proportions to give the appearance that, at any moment, Lawrence might literally pop and drown the room in puss and Ovaltine.
It would be easy to say he carries fat the way I used to but that’s not true.
My face was pudgy, sure, my waist rotund and my legs (as mother used to say) resembled tree trunks but this fucker is all round.
Round face. Round trunk. Round hands.
He’s like a miserable cartoon sketch.
And he always looks wet.
It looks like it should be sweat but there’s something about his sheen that is entirely more permanent and, besides, he never seems to have stains on his lavender turtlenecks (which is clearly a nod to my fat days) and you’d think that his insistence on corduroy pants would leave ass markings wherever he went but such is not the case.
He wears glasses too. Round, of course. A little SS but infinitely less fashionable.
I never got a good look at his shoes but I can only imagine their Buck’s. Brown but a slightly different shade than his slacks which – somehow – he manages to keep creased which, for corduroys, is just confusing.
What’s the goddamn point, Lawrence?
Your whole fucking leg is lines!
Unless I’m getting confused.
It’s a very confusing time for me.
Could be I’m swapping cords with a pair of navy blue slacks – heavily pleated – and almost made of cotton but never, ever quite and whatever blend they do possess is just enough to give me a yeast infection.
He looks like the embarrassment of old money but he isn’t.
Right down to the weird shade of Anglo-Saxon he parades like a badge of courage. Not quite ashen but distinctly pale with periodic blushes which further emphasize his overall wetness.
I mean, the kid is just…ugh.
And he talks with this bookish affectation, forcing his nut-twisted tenor down to an unconvincing baritone to give the impression that not only is he absurdly well-read but he has definitely, totally, 100% done sex with an absolutely for real lady whose breasts swole to DDs the second his five foot five trotting ass sluiced into the room muttering Dylan Thomas snippets to anyone who would listen.
“We who are young are old,” being his personal favorite.