Januariad

Denny’s trousers are too short. His jumper is too large. All of his particulars are, in some way, wonky or unsuitable or askew. He is standing in the closed road behind the zoo, where a gap in the trees overlooks the sea lion pool. He is not looking at sea lions. He is looking at his feet, then at the kerb, then at the face of each person passing. Walkers shuffle through the great mounds of dead leaves that accumulate where cars never go, but Denny stands on a clear island of footpath, toes flexing visibly in his shoes.

His hands go often to his face, as though trying to manually rearrange his nervous features. Waves of discomfort pass visibly over him, and at their peak he runs long, knotted fingers through knotted hair with dramatic and self-conscious vigour. The hair is loose and curly, going towards grey, and has retreated a long way up his forehead.

To each passerby he gives a look that is wide-eyed and trembling and disarmingly submissive. Shoulders stooped, his arms enter a half-fold, then retreat, then pause awkwardly. Each hand clutches absently at the other. His expression is unhinged, unable, but above all apologetic. He apologises. He apologises. He apologises.