Nicole Dominique

The Visitor

I’m not sure what it was that drew me to Mr. Moreau. The sight of him alone was ironic: the stark contrast of his shiny, silver hair against his rugged, puckered skin. It was as if his hair had only lost hue, never luster. I could see that time had not been so kind to the rest of him. His jaw was tightly clamped - piling the lines and crevices of his tired skin over his cheekbones, giving way to the sunken outline of a skull. There were divots and depressions in his forehead, and a waxy, scaly film hanging over his eyelids. His chest rattled with a hiccup-like movement each time he drew a breath. He smelled familiar, like the pages of an old novel high atop a dusty shelf. Well-read, once loved, but bested by time.