A man is looking across the busy park at me. He is curious, out of place. He is wearing a battered old 3 piece (no tie), the seams have come apart around the shoulders, giving the impression the jacket is to small for him and he is pooping out, it conjures a picture of Bruce Banner transforming into the incredible Hulk. He approches, sits down beside me, he smells - I would guess - like a man who hasn’t washed for several weeks, his age is undeterminable under his bushy salt and pepper beard, and his leathery, weather beaten face, I get the impression he was once quite strikingly good looking, puts me in mind of a young Mickey Rourke before the plastic surgery. He is sitting right beside me, shoulder to shoulder looking down towards his hands. I look at his hands, they often say the hands are the key to telling someone’s age. His show strong veins running down onto his knuckles, they are free from skin imperfections which often come with age, but are dark and show off the spoils of fights and possible bites, both scattered with whitened scars. He looks up at me then back down to his feet, I’m a little frightened by him but there is something in his beetle black eyes that he had flashed at me that draws me to say something.
“Wh…”
I think twice, we carry on sitting in silence.
I've written this because I was wondering what stories this man had, he was definately a character and I think one day I'll write him in to something. If only I'd had the courage to talk to him, I'm sure I would of got alot from it.
