He is sitting alone in the middle of the coffee shop. His green sweater matches the wallpaper on the wall, and if it weren’t for his grey speckled hair, he would disappear altogether. His coffee cup resides conveniently next to his right hand, steam coming out of the lid. Old, round eyes, and black rimmed glasses, that nearly slide off the top of his large nose. I love his hands – they are big, wrinkled and have an air of kindness imbedded in them. I can’t figure out what book he is reading, but he is incredibly focused. He is so absorbed in his reading, examining the pages as if they are generous clues to some intriguing mystery. He slowly turns the pages and generously scribbles ink on the books scripted text.
He has an old ziploc bag full of crushed walnuts. Sticking his hand in their nutty contents, he pulls out a handful, and playfully twirls them in-between his fingers. Eventually he throws the walnuts in his mouth, chomping heavily with a satisfied air. After abruptly clearing his throat, he mechanically grabs his coffee cup and takes a long draught -This process being repeated continuously. The amusing thing is that none of these actions seem to interrupt his study. Haa, I wonder what book could keep his focus so diligently! His silent intensity intrigues me.
I feel like I know this old man in some vague way, but I do not. Our paths shall probably never cross again and the only thing that will help me remember him is this quick, poorly sketched interpretation of his demeanor. Yet, I shall try to remember him.. and he shall ever be my unknown friend.