Wednesday, June 9, 2010
He had hope in his eyes. There he stood, at the back door of the bakery, loading or unloading, I cannot be sure. His white t-shirt, pants, and apron hung lazily from his body. His hair lacked any sense of style and his glasses looked to have been bought several decades back. But that look in his eyes. It was reversed. As if somehow looking into his eyes meant seeing through them, and his innocence. It was entirely too intimate for this distant first glance. I looked down at my feet, but could still feel his eyes on me. I thought of him for the rest of the day.