“Spring what ?” he repeats, now with an edge. He’s even taller than I imagined, so solid and intimidating. I’m struck by the shadow he throws upon the wall, spanning from floor to ceiling, hard jaw in black profile. I’m struck by gentle modifications to the image that appears in my head whenever I pull up his name: His hair’s a couple inches longer than it was in his pictures, and messier. There are four tiny acne scars scattered along the right side of his face, and the lamplight traces his features in a way that changes the shape of his mouth, the line of his nose. It’s wrong. And lovely.
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