Obscuro

I watch my friend calmly as the dim evening light begins to fail. He is quiet; which would certainly unnerve most people. To everyone else the man goes out of his way to attract attention and show off the wonderful decibel levels he can reach. He has this insatiable need to show everyone that he's there. He constantly proves himself. I haven't gotten the whole story yet, but I think he was beaten as a kid.

But he is quiet now. As he looks out at the sky he could be described as somber, unless you knew him. His bright blue eyes, even with his usual several day's scruff, make him appear far younger than his forty-something years. Along with his typical worn t-shirt and jeans, he wears a brown newsboy cap cocked jauntily to one side. He has a young soul.

The dusty oranges and purples fade into the night sky. He still hasn't said anything. I wonder, vaguely, if he regrets his decision. Murder doesn't sit well with most people. Then again, I doubt that he's "most people."

I know what he did was right. Sometimes, and he and I have had this conversation often, people don't get it. People don't understand that sometimes necessary things aren't always pleasant. They won't always bring smiles to poor and starving kids in some third world country. Sometimes we have to do things simply because it's right, and no one else will. We both believe that nothing and no one is perfect, including ourselves.

I suppose if anyone heard me saying that they'd tsk me and say I've spent too much time with him, but they'd be wrong. I've always agreed with the man. We're kindred spirits, you see, though he'd never admit it to anyone else. I think he's amused enough by my insincerity to help me keep up the appearance of perfection. To everyone else, I'm far too helpful and far too kind. I bow smoothly to the social niceties that he pointedly ignores. I am the well-dressed, well-mannered, and respectable person whom everyone relies on. He is the jerk with an attitude no one likes.

I like him though, and that apparently counts for something. When people see me, Mr. Messianic Complex, as his friend, they always try their best to befriend him, too. I wouldn't try it, as it never works. He always figures out some way to offend them. He can get anyone to hate him; it's a gift. I don't blame him. He just hates people. To be perfectly honest, so do I. I'd never tell anyone this, but I envy his freedom.

The sun falls below view. I shift against the icy railing of the balcony and peer down at my friend. He hasn't moved from his position, legs crossed Indian-style, watching the sky. When it's just us, I don't ask him if he's cold. I don't really care. He'd either tell me or he'd move.

Finally, his thoughts appear to settle as his rigid concentration breaks. He scowls. He gives me one of his Looks, and I help him wordlessly to return upright so that we can clean up. As he straightens out, he jerks his chin upward and I follow his gaze, then roll my eyes at this uncharacteristic weakness.

He is pointing out the light of the full moon.