When they see him in the street, hopping over puddles, striding with purposefulness, eyes forward, back straight, and shoulders set like the scales of justice are rumored to be; they are certain that he is honored, held tightly and close and worshipped at night.
So becoming is he, with a head like a polished bowl and a manner that surely only rulers must have; easy confidence, natural appeal, a sense of comfort with the way he moves his own weight. They are convinced for a quick fleeting flash that they want him.
With his eyes he may dismantle the sturdiest of barriers. His lips may untangle the most concealed facets of love and that skin that glistens like the deepest of brown waters announces him, separates him from those yet to discover themselves. They feel secret pangs of envy and resent him.
So expert is he, with a mind like an antique clock with parts that are delicate, disguised and hard to reach. He deceives them. On the inside he feels as if pressed between concrete walls; stripped nude and in exile with arms and legs bound, shivering and praying to be touched just once by a loving hand.