The man closest to the counter had black wild bushy hair and a pencil thin moustache. On his face sat a pair of black glasses with tiny oval lenses that framed his small, wide open eyes, much like how I figured a serial killer would look. His clothes were dirty and ragged, like the man who sat a table across from him.
The other man had a hard stubbled face and soft stare, a close-mouthed gaze of a heart lost in space and time as victim to an unforgiving world that never knew his name or gave him reason not to close his eyes and slip into the cold dark shadow of eternity. I looked down from the man’s face to his hands. He had a thumb and a pinky on each. Nothing in between.Read More