Januariad

Roy is not unclean. He does not smell particularly badly, his teeth are scrubbed, his hair not so terribly lank. And yet everything about his presence reminds those sharing it of the phlegmy, suppurative nature of the human body. Fellow tram riders trapped in his airspace discover themselves forty seconds into a breath-holding exercise they have not consciously decided to begin. Those obligated by work and friendship to shake his hand find themselves thinking longingly of sinks, soaps, hot water. And yet Roy is essentially clean. The reasons for his phantom miasma are not entirely clear. The usual scrubbed and tailored street face disguises very well the goos and sludges around which it is wrapped, but it seems impossible to look at Roy without imagining every kind of issuance from his dark-rimmed orifices. True, his skin has a smudged, slightly unctuous sheen, and his eyes are exactly not the clear, shining pools of a healthy pup. But his aura is darker and deeper than these small tells. Time spent in his company leads to black thoughts about the mess in his guts. His exhalations are often actually dodged, his embraces excruciating ordeals. His fingers seem strangely textured, matted with some fine crumbs or loamy residue. All of is inferred, imagined. The impression comes from somewhere beyond the physical, and even in those instances when Roy suspects something cagey in his interactions, he could never imagine for a moment a way to trace it back to his face, his limbs, his terrible ambience.