He looked like a tough guy from the movies. Six-three or so tall. Lean and mean. His head was shaved and he had the requisite five-o-clock shadow of an action movie getaway driver. Was he a French martial-arts expert, AWOL from the Foreign Legion, in town for a jewel heist?
His dark, pitiless eyes told a different story.
His hulking frame was perched, almost squatting, on a child’s size chair in the play area of the local supermarket. The children were oblivious to his suffering and were busy screaming and yelling and running all around him. A ball, or toy of some sort bounced off his head. He did not flinch or even look up. Entirely overwhelmed, he looked miserable. A man resolved to his fate. He was vanquished. Beaten. He looked like he wanted to cry. Whatever caper he came to town for, his present situation was more than he could handle.
I looked away.
copyright 2018 Christopher Donahue