softened to an old paper towel roll

That clear reflection in the metallic lake of that insanely blue sky shimmered almost like Ben’s eyes when he lifted them to connect with the being he was speaking to just then. Ben in his troubles, in his dissatisfaction. The disappointment of the blooming idealist. “It’s a chore,” he roared, looking more beautiful than before. He sparks me when he smiles, and moves me when he speaks, but when he cries I am just lost in metaphor.