Beneath the Bond: Unraveling Secrets in Andrew Miller’s My Guys
Tattoos swathed Damien’s* face, neck, scalp, knuckles, and wrists. They swirled along his arms, circled his neck, crept up his forehead, drifted over his scalp. Seeping out of each eye, a single blue teardrop. I imagined them sliding down his cheeks, leaving slick sheens, iridescent as a beetle’s wing.
This was his first speech — the Icebreaker. His opportunity to talk about himself. Damien gripped the lectern with both hands and leaned forward. His eyes skittered back and forth across the chapel. He didn’t introduce himself, tell a joke, or banter about the weather.
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