What made him so cool? Was it the way he carried books; gripped by the spine, resting on his shoulder? Was it the fact that he had stubble always, even after he shaved? Was it the way he would lean back on one arm and look at you and not say anything at all? You remember so much about it, you remember how it started and how it ended, you remember every glass of wine and every keystroke. You remember the sound of his door opening. You wish you could forget the sound of it closing. But when you saw him, that first time, that last time, what made him so cool? Was it the hair, the jeans, the white tee shirt, the smile? Was it the way he held a pint of beer? Was it his name, his stories, his laugh? There really was something about him. You hadn't met anyone so cool. And he really was. When you think about, and I mean, really think about it, you know it was, more than anything else, that leather jacket, the way it creased at the elbows, the little tear at the collar, the pockets you put your hands in when it got cold, the zip you played with while watching the trailers at the cinema, the smell - that particular smell of oil and cigarettes that all motorcycle jackets have - and the way it felt when you put it on.
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