He would always stand out.
Maybe it was his physical traits. Too tall, too wide. Sure, he was a typical, strong man from the side, but other macho guys didn't see him as their own; he didn't like them either. Maybe it was because of his pale, sickly face, the bags under his eyes or because of his habit of nail painting and excessive earrings. He wouldn't give those up to fit in, he didn't want to.
The first time we walked the night streets together, illuminated by headlights and glowing advertisements; he was always looking longingly at family run restaurants and lonely weeds growing out of the cracks in decade old pavement. His eyesight is very selective, I personally think it only works well under stress, when calm he's as blind as a mole. Maybe it's because of his apparent lack of depth perception.
Even under shadow he still looked so lost.
Don't get me wrong, he's calm, he's collected, he's cool. He always takes a step in the direction he wants to go; it's the direction that doesn't want him. Maybe it's his casual wearing of a very formal suit; he looks out of place in a shopping mall just as much as in an office building.
I'm a snake. I can disappear within the partying crowd, indulging in earthly pleasures. He solemnly sits and drinks the cheapest alcohol available.
You can't look away. You don't want to look away from him. He's not great. He holds more flaws and regrets than anyone I've ever met. He can never change his ways. He's anti-great, not in the moral sense but in the systemic way, he's the opposite to it all. He's ugly, he's mean, he's violent, he's rebellious, he's unhealthy; yet he's real, he's kind, he deeply cares for community, he has so much love.
When you see him, staring out onto farmland like a man who lost his home. When you see how he cleans his revolver with disgust and love at the same time.
You want to fit in with him.
I want to fit in with him.
That rat bastard.