His cheekbones pronounced, his slight bristle of stubble, his brows immaculately-shaped, he positively glowed from the picture frame.
He could have modeled. Perhaps not on the runway, for his demeanor was too humble, too approachable. He lacked the stark, cold angularity usually reserved for runway types – those exiguous flesh mannequins, paid to shut up and look fierce, or bored, or merely apathetic.
But he could be useful on some poster or brochure selling a car, or a vacation, or a cup of coffee.
Did his girlfriend ever say things like, “You have such a nice face, you should be on television?”
Did he give modeling a go?
Was he chewed up and spit out by the heartless fashion industry?
Did he write postcards from a broken-down Los Angeles motel room?
Or was he simply happy being who he was? A bank manager, newly promoted, newly moved into a two-bedroom, Yaletown address, newly murdered?