Candid, moments shared between us, one of those uncounted transitions between events, something about getting in a car, passing through a doorway, walking down a hallway, these things don’t really count; a shared glance off the record, a look of pain when it was only us. It was so unearthly, so unlike him. The debonair, the Mephistophelian, the devil-may-care, all gone when the eyes of the world weren’t on him, when he wasn’t performing for you. It wasn’t often. Lines creased his face, and he became the old man he really was. Misty confusion conquered his eyes like an overwrought child who can cry no more. Used up. He’d set himself on fire for your love if he had thought it would work. No, it was a longer, a slower, and more thorough conflagration his audience commended, one not of the body so much as the soul.
Candid
Tale Told 