On the Front

The street was empty, except for me and him on opposites sides.

Despite his six-plus height and broad shoulders, his clothing hung on him loosely like a child growing into hand-me-downs. He wore a green paisley shirt, faded blue jeans and scuffed black boots. Tattoos peeked out from his too-long sleeves and spilled onto the backs of his hands and fingers.

He was lumbering in my direction but appeared to be looking past me. He had a round face with pock-marked skin, sleepy eyelids under bushy brows, and long brown shaggy hair.

If his demeanor was a casual discomfort, his eyes were gleaming as if there were a vibrant younger version of himself lurking within. As masculine as his dress and manner were, his soft lips and long lashes gave him an androgynous mien.

As he approached, he barely glanced at me and rasped, “How’s the battlefront?”

Surprised, I couldn't answer before he plodded past.

To myself, I whispered, “We’re winning.”

After a couple more steps, I stopped. I wanted to look back, but I didn't. I just stood, listening to a soft mechanical thrum, and a distant river.