His size should make him slow, but, since he’s fundamentally irritating, it doesn’t. He sprints ahead of us like some kind of athlete. I watch the muscles in his back bunch through his T-shirt as the fabric grows steadily wetter and more transparent, this slight April shower having a catastrophic effect. Everything about him is so… big. Thick. Excessive. He is height and muscle layered with soft, simple weight, and looking at him makes me want to sink my teeth into something.
