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Summary
Standing at the counter was a tiny, almost frail-looking boy. Apparently, however, he didn’t let his size stop him, because he still looked quite tough with his worn jean jacket (even if the sleeves had to be rolled up) and messy hair (even if it looked a bit too deliberate, as though he’d spent slightly too much time trying to look cool that morning) and one hand in his pocket (even if those hands were long, feminine, and delicate). He had a cigarette dangling out of one corner of his mouth. Cigarettes weren’t allowed in the shop. Morrissey didn’t say anything.