I'm Waiting

At First Glance

The first time I saw him was coming home from my very first day at work. It was my very first job and it felt good to finally be making my own money.

The walk home wasn't too long, but March was unusually cold this year, and I wrapped my coat around my tighter, trying to keep in as much precious body heat as I could.

A cold breeze swept by me, continuing on its course to wrap around buildings and cut through the insufficient clothes to He very heart of the people who happened to get in its way.

It was the rustling of paper that first brought my attention to him. An unusual sound on the side of the street, in front of vibrant buildings that offset his dark clothes.

I think it was the fact that he sat there so placidly, amidst the hurry and scramble of rush hour. He seemed almost unfazed by the cold, and by the people passing by. A notebook was held loosely in one hand, the pages fluttering unchecked in his hands.

I found myself looking at him for longer than was perhaps decent. He looked so delicate, almost too fragile to be simply sitting in this weather.

I walked by very near to him, and what stuck with my the most was his face. There was a determination in the set of his jaw, and yet a sadness about his eyes and mouth. And yet there was an air of expectancy about him that I thought I must be imagining. You can't read strangers that well, can you?

I had almost forgotten about him until I walked home from work the next night. My gaze didn't linger half as long as my mind did.