D. was late. This wasn’t surprising, he usually was but on this day it was particularly annoying. He arrived twenty-five minutes after the agreed time, running and sweating, an apologetic smile on his face. When he finally opened the door and we entered his parent’s house and eventually his room, the warmth of the radiator was enormously pleasant compared to the icy temperatures outside. Tea?, D. asked. Yes. He left the room and a couple of seconds later the sound of a kettle was audible. There were posters on the walls, Chuck Norris, Dwayne Johnson and Harrison Ford, remnants of a teenage boy’s admiration. He had a dusty bookshelf. The novels looked untouched, as if he had never read a single page. There was Hemingway, Hornby and Hardy, the rest was covered by a yellowish fabric that had been washed far too long ago. D. returned with two steaming hot cups of tea. He put them on his desk. He had four pens, a pencil, a crayon and two quills; they lay neatly next to each other, on a piece of paper that had a drawing on it. He was a gifted drawer, always had been, he only drew with pencils and quills, recently he had added a little bit of colour here and there. He took his mug and took a big sip then he started to talk about his neighbour’s dog that was keeping him up at night because it just didn’t stop barking, which was good because he was most productive at night and could use that insomnia time to draw. He had many commissions to fulfill. His room had a smell like chalk and milk. His hands were moving quickly while he was ranting about that odious dog and his curls leaped a bit up and down in the rhythm of his steps. D.s collection of DVDs was impressive. He had every important film in his shelf, watching them all would take a lifetime, but then again D. was remarkable, he could do things nobody else could do. He had stopped talking and took another sip of his tea, he briefly touched his lips with his tongue afterwards and his face was reflected in the shiny surface of the mug. His angelic appearance, the eyes that had the colour of the sky, the blonde curly hair, the puffy cheeks, that big smile and that clueless expression he wore so often. His voice though didn’t fit. It sounded –nails- on- a- blackboard -raspy. D. now started talking about how he had made money a couple of years ago. A guy had approached him on the street and asked him if he knew how to make fake IDs. He sat down on his bed and seemed like he wanted company in there.