Catastrophe Jones

Contentment sat well on features that were once again young enough to show boyish happiness and youthful optimism.

In his jeans and Tshirts, Cosby sweaters and penny loafers, he was a new husband, a father to be, and he carried with him a sense of impending excitement, a sweetness that held innocence and newness. His too-blue eyes wore joy like a favorite winter coat, something he bundled around himself comfortably — something that fit him so very well.

If Checker could see him, she’d be torn between vomiting in terror, and shooting him in the face to destroy the last vestiges of the horrible beauty he’d become.

His license still read ‘Simon Brightman’. It was his name, after all — and it’s not as though there weren’t dozens of them; the first and last name was common enough.

He was listed in the phone book, for a small town in Nevada. In the fucking phone book.

He didn’t wear suits. He only owned one, pulled out of the back of the closet to go to weddings and such, one in pinstriped grey that his wife said brought out the cornflower blue of his eyes.

He loved his dog, his wife, his coming daughter, their little house, and everything in his life. He loved it like something you didn’t know you could have, something unexpected and delightful.