He seems unfocused, dreamy, his feet point at me, but he gazes at the floor in another direction. His silver watch is too loose on his left wrist. He turns his attention to his phone, brow furrowing, the iPhone small in between his two hands. Black loafers, black pants, black overcoat, and a startlingly white collar. Dark eyes and lighter hair. He turns back to the floor, his right arm wrapped across his body to grab the bar to his left.

His hair is short and soft looking with a few silver hairs sprinkled throughout. A barely-there patch is visible on the back of his head courtesy of the window behind him. His skin looks weathered, softened by time. He has put on black-rimmed, rectangular glasses, better to see his phone? Better so see his fellow passengers? He’s watching someone down the train and I am watching him. His wrists never leave his knees and he types only with his right thumb. The white cuff of his shirt only pokes out on his right side.

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