Michael: a Hebrew name which asks, “who is like God”.
I have met no less than seven Michael’s in Charlotte: Michael, Mike, Mike, Michael, Mike, Michael, and lastly, Michael.
The first picture of Michael I saw was of him running a marathon. His shorts weren’t tight but draped on his powerful thighs. Thighs that carried his frame strongly; thighs that were hard and muscular; but at the same time, when in repose, lay like drowsy eels.
Michael’s shoulders, like his thighs are powerful, but subtle; a whisper which lifts like dense fog to the snowy caps to the snowy mountain range of his shoulders.
His face is framed by a thicket of brown moss on his face, and a brown mop atop.
His smile is at once warm and inviting like the smoke rising from a chimney promising warmth; when you stand close to the hearth of his grin you can feel the heat of his frame.
My hand is comfortable on him.
Especially atop those thighs.