His waterline of humor

He floats just above the waterline of humor I never know if he’s on the level or not, peers over the edge, on the brink of absurd rumor. Maybe human mirth has been squeezed out of him while tilting at windmills; open hostility is his escape whips out to a froth any sea of affection at his whim. It is a carefully crafted facade, and he plays it like a master like a tenantless temple looking for souls to save or a gypsy staring at his crystal bowl for any disaster. He could caress with flattery, or bite with harsh insight, uses silence as his weapon to control dialogue but turns on a smile a reassuring crescent in the night. Awareness hums between us - he’s a magician plucking out a dove of intimacy from his sleeve, then he’s gone like a shadow running from the sun. @jjote022924