Insanity

He sits behind me, smugly folding his arms over his barrel chest. His arms and legs are both long and thick, a firm, sinewy stockiness, like weathered ropes or tree trunks, matched by the wide paddles of his hands. His face looks sculpted, balanced, sharp. Dark waves of hair spill onto his face, shocking against his eyes, a deep, pure, blue. They're calm, attractive, madly drawing, but so too did Lucifer wear dazzling gems.
His laugh, hypnotizing as the rest of him, rings out. I turn, half curious, half enticed. As soon as our eyes meet, the laughter is squeezed out of his face, like dirty water from a sponge. The sharp attractiveness of it all remains, now lined with distaste.

"Don't you say anything," he warns, with a sudden harshness.
"I didn't," I stammer, with a matching sudden confusion.
"Don't give me that look," he says.
Forcing a laugh, "I'm not allowed to look at you?"
We're caught in a dangerous tango of truth and jest, and nobody can guess where the next step will fall.
"No. Because you're f***ing crazy."
I laugh, and flip my hair over my shoulder as I turn back around, "And proud of it."

I lied. I'm not proud. And hes not joking.