a pretty boy, in his late teens or early twenties, skated towards the outdoor cafe where a friend and i were people watching after work. he had on this purple tank unbusied by any louche prints. the tautness of his torso was not lost on us.
when he closed in on our table, the deck of his board scraped against the baseboard of the temporary barrier the cafe had erected between the tables and the street. after muttering a curse word, he gave us the sinisterest of sneers.
beauty is the purgation of superfluities, michelangelo once said.
the economy of his one-word profanity, the crackling crispness of his trail as he sped away, nothing amiss, nothing more needed.