Today I saw a man, dignified by his gray hair. He had file folders and heavy cases in the back of his car, indicating his career to be one of importance, stature, and power. The man looked haggared, run down and frankly, exhausted. He drove a well-loved white Toyota Camry, one of its wheels missing a hubcap, the fabric of the ceiling shying away from its foam frame. The right review mirror was missing. I could sense the man could feel my eyes on him, yet he remained steadfast, staring forward. I wondered if this man had experienced some sort of tragedy; had lost his job, lost his wife, lost his pride. If it was indeed any of these options, the loss had been recent. His worry aged his face, a quick indication of his emotional fatigue. I thought that perhaps when his solitude was disturbed and when he returned home, returned to sociality, returned to wherever it was he was going, perhaps he would smile, would pretend his cares were trivial and his burden lighter. The man's dignified exterior was in poor conjunction with that of his car and this minor detail intrigued me, made me so curious about his story, his life. I stared without shame. The light turned green, the man never flinched, never glanced my direction, his thoughts so tense that they could not be disturbed by the simple disregard of social norms and the shameless staring on the part of an anxious woman. I drove away, slightly more than intrigued by a man I will never know.

This may seem to be of little importance, and it probably is. But perhaps, perhaps, you are more fascinating to someone than you ever thought possible. Perhaps.