I met him busking on a street corner, hustling for a meal and a place to bed down for the night. Something about him caught my eye. He was scruffy—left eye clearly indicated he had been in a recent skirmish. That only added to his appeal. Everyone likes a bad boy.
I left him there on the corner but he followed me home. He wouldn’t give me his name. As wide as he was tall, sporting what was clearly a homemade haircut and that one bad eye—he made me think of John Wayne, so I called him Wayne. When we got to my house I gave pause to what was about to occur. I knew the danger but I asked him inside and I gave him that meal anyway. His soft brown eyes said everything but he still didn’t speak.
We went to bed that evening with no words…
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