A small "scene" boy

Not but fifteen. Black disheveled hair under a black hoodie. It had a gloss to it, too; he probably hadn't showered in days. All of them had that gloss and that present, yet unobtrusive body odor. For the life of me, I could never figure out why it smelled fruity. He smoked--his kind did--and a cigarette hung between his pursed lips. On the exhale, he wouldn't do anything sexy, nothing provocative--nothing like rings or a curl, nothing to indicate pleasure--only a cloud of smoke and a sigh. He was counter-culture trash. He was a creature of the night; I'd only see him nights, and I believe he liked that best. The sun hurts him: exposes the immediacy of his world. At night, he can't see more than a couple of houses down, and he can vacillate between his indolence and duty. He doesn't need others--only money and spare time. Both of which, his yuppie parents dish out readily.