His eyes were black shooter marbles that never looked directly at me. He had lanky, feminine hands, which he casually cracked and a hard jet-black helmet of combed back hair. He wore a tight black suit that made him different than the t-shirted students but the same as the clean-cut Elvis Costello everyone already knew. His blond, stringy-haired companion wore a pale oversized camisole tucked into Mink Pink jean shorts that hugged her waist like the corset of our generation. Her forehead consumed her heart-shaped face, and her sharp nose made anyone it pointed at uncomfortable. She had sunken square eyes and hunched her back just enough to exude the severity of a high-end fashion model. Yin and Yang walked out of the bathroom as the same person. They were not holding hands, but they sniffed in unison.
Spotted at a party in a college house in Middletown, CT