Whatever I wanted to believe, he was not, and never would be, one of those WYSIWYGs.
Probably never had been. No, for all the carefully combed hair, the deliberate, deceptively-boyish (in the sense of in quotation marks, but I did know he was too intelligent to do that twitchy-fingered thing to denote them) flop of a mid-brown fringe, the discreet and expensive aftershave, faintly redolent of an apple orchard on a drowsy afternoon (a memory, which was nearly my undoing, though I kept that to myself) and the confident way he strode into the room, he was most definitely not what he seemed.
I watched him, confident that, sat where I was, it would take him a moment or two to spot me, and went over in my mind what I knew of him, what he had allowed to be known.
And what he had hoped never would be known.
But I have my sources. I knew that the eyes above those perfectly-planed cheekbones would just as easily transfer to a snake, and that, like the iceberg of his wicked heart, there was far more going on under that smooth exterior. And all of it sewage.
Words Inc, (Wednesday) snake, plane, iceberg