The man.

I used to see a man quite often. Having worked within a one block area in the loop area of Chicago for over six years, I walk by the same Dunkin Donuts nearly every day. I would see this man there several times each week. He was always alone. Always sitting on the counter seat with his one glazed donut and a small coffee.

I'm not sure why he made me so sad, but my heart would ache for this man. He was probably in his early fifties and had the look of a man that had done blue collar-type work for much of his life. Thin, with fine gray hair cut in a shaggy, longer style layered to his shoulders, he looked like a sad man from another decade. He usually would be wearing a short-sleeved dress shirt that hung on his thin frame with skinny pants. I fancied him a smoker, yet never saw him outside taking a drag.

He had very sad eyes. Pale blue, no spark of life in them. I would glance at him, quietly eating his donut, sipping his coffee, no real expression of enjoyment on his face. I figured he had to get some kind of enjoyment out of his treat, out of his routine. His face never reflected happiness however.

I hadn't seen him in awhile, but did this morning on the train. The very sight of him still makes me sad.

I'm still not sure why.