His countenance in the chair could not have been more different than Angie’s. While she’d had a softness, maybe a weariness about her, Roddy was all iron and kinetic energy. His lean, sculpted cheek-boned face is notched below his slightly longer than GI flattop of black hair. His eyes are black with nearly no irises. They are dilated and I know he is high. He sports a black pearl earring in one ear. He has a sole patch, the slightest goatee, really just a wisp, no sideburns and glasses with black upper frames that wrap his face like a baseball player’s shades. The glasses cross over his Italian nose, flattened a bit from a fight in boot camp. He has on a Black Keys tee shirt cuffed above his “guns,” and his ever-present cargo shorts are strapped tight to his narrow waist, hemmed closed efficiently at the base of his stumps which begin above his knees, or where they would have been.
Sometimes it is hard for me to comprehend that he is still only 27 years old. Fallujah was 2004, only two centuries ago.