Davidè (vale) was a positive manlet at 5’9”, but made up for
it in other ways. Thick, veiny arms hung from round, forward-sloped shoulder
muscle. Pecs that had a tendency to sag with his slumped posture, but which
made for a powerful profile. Even through a jacket you could tell the kid was jacked,
and he mostly attracted the sorts of women that went for dumb, muscly dudes.
I used to lay the flattery on thick like vorschmack,
commending and cooing over his body. “Look how handsome Davidè is”, I would
remark. “Look at this beard. This crew cut. These muscles. A positive Adonis he
is!”. Davidè would shrug or deflect, quick to point out his own flaws, or
change the subject. More often than not he would turn the praise back to me,
citing my height (6’), or success in business. The brute had a point.
Looks aside, Davidè had little to offer. He worked on farms.
He was in the Army for a few years, and claimed to have medals from Afghanistan
that nobody ever saw. Before his death he survived on payday lenders and small
cash loans from me, squandering every cent on mid-range cigars and cheap beer.
Davidè hung himself from his ceiling fan in early 2018. The
coroner estimated he’d been suspended there for days, but with the rate of rot
in the Australian summer it looked more like weeks. The plaster securing the
fan to the ceiling had partly given way so his toes graced the ground, leaving him suspended like a bloated
ballerina. It was the grisliest, most dreadful thing I have ever seen in my
life. I still retch at the smell of meat.
I try to remember Davidè as the usually decent kid who
drank too much and paired cigars with chips, and mostly I succeed. It’s only
when I remember his relationship with Emma that he transforms back into the
putrid hulk, teetering on his tiptoes.
No comments:
Post a Comment