No More X-Files

He holds his magazine open with the pages tucked between his index and middle finger. His index and thumb form a circle and my brain can’t help but spin out and create stories about secret spy signals and how this could be one. Someone roughly whispered in his ear that if he needed help he was to sit in the first car of the downtown A train, reading the most recent copy of The Economist, which must have been folded in half so the cover bends down toward his leg and his thumb and index finger of his right hand making a circle. He probably though they were crazy, but desperate times call for desperate measures, and he just hopes that someone sees him because he could really use that help right now.

He has rimless glasses on with thin wire arms disappearing under his grey knit hat. He looks like he has probably started balding so he is either a cue ball under the hat or has very shortly shaved hair. I am leaning towards no hair because of how clean-shaven his face is (even in the middle of the crisis he is facing today he took the time to shave). His scarf is warmly looped about his neck and tucked into his black pea-coat. His briefcase lays across his lap under the magazine.

Maybe it’s time to stop watching X-files.

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