His name was George. I never met him, nor do I have the slightest idea as to how or when he died. But I know the color of his eyes, hair, and the way his closet smelled.
Sepia; not just brown, but sepia. That beautiful meeting place somewhere in between red and brown, named after the pigment derived from the ink sac of the cuttlefish, Sepia. George probably had brown on his license, but that wouldn’t have really done those peepers justice. In ancient Greco-Roman days, sepia ink was frequently used for writing. And with all the stories waiting to be written from what those eyes had seen, sepia couldn’t be more appropriate.
His hair was Colgate-smile white, not quite Santa Clause level, but damn near getting there. I imagine he had dark hair once upon a time, but as the years caressed his skin with wrinkles and gravity, his…
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