My hero

I was ten, maybe nine, and it was the loveliest time of the year. Early octobre, the leafs were blood red and yellow and my mind was filled wonder. We walked slowly, he smoked and I loved the way he smelled. Hyde park was filled with people, horses and dogs. He asked me if I wanted a dog and when I noded he promised me one. Iris ended up sending the puppy I namned Stalin to "a nice family on the country side" after a week. He had destroyed some dress.

I didn't cry.

We used to walk for hours, Louis and I. He never saw the bruises on the outside, but he knew where to find the ones on the inside. I couldn't wrap silk and labels around them. I could never hide a single emotion from his curious eyes. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. He was sick. I was hurt.

That is how I remember him. A tall handsome man in his mid thirties, causal chinos by Brooks brothers and always a lit cigarett between two thin fingers. Much like me, he didnt sleep and the evidence was painted with a dark shade beneath his eyes. We looked like father and daughter.

The sunday walks became less frequent, and his pants seem to increase in size. Years later, he was dead.