He wears tats upon his thin frame and silver studs on his lips. His jeans fall inches below his gray Calvin underwear. The first day I spoke with him, he wasn’t wearing a shirt. He was standing in his driveway talking to his wife. She’s a pretty gal with stylish short hair, manicured hands and glossy red lips. She fits into this suburban neighborhood of ours, the one I call Trumanville because every house and family looks so much like the other one.
Except for theirs.