I understood my feelings, at least, but I couldn't control them. I didn't want to. The truth is, I had begun looking beyond Mr Renshaw's shy quirks an... kindness. Whenever he spoke, I found myself transfixed by his mouth: his full, generous lips and light beard flecked with gold, yellow and russet, like a wheatfield in August. His Adam's apple was strong and pronounced, as a man's should be. The bridge of his nose was dusted with a faint galaxy of brown freckles, slightly faded with the passing. Life, love, money, happiness. Dig deeper and it is impossible not to see that these things are just the rouge on the cheek of a dead whore. Somewhere deeper inside him he thinks this, but on the surface he thinks very little at all. He has slipped into his auto pilot mode and forgets completely about the check that he had told himself he was there to get. Money is not what he needs right now, although what he needs seems to elude what little of his mind is still functioning. He slowly walks. More

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