The Promise of Hidden Messages

He lay sprawled across two seats. Expensive shoes, khaki pants, black wool coat, beige knit cap pulled low over his eyebrows. Large curls of brown hair spilled out from under his cap.

He kept his eyes in a lazy half-closed, half-open position: an arrogant look of apathy. Or was it an apathetic look of arrogance?

He paid little heed to those who would have liked to sit down. If someone approached, he simply stretched his legs out further, crossed his arms across his chest and closed his eyes until he sensed that the person had moved on.

Across from him a small, scrunched elderly man sat with his elbows on his knees, eyes to the floor.

What was he looking at?

What was he looking for? Mysterious messages in the grey patterns on the subway floor?  It felt to me as if he was studying the floor in the hopes of finding something.

They were a contrast in body language. The young man stretched out, taking up as much room as he could. The elderly man hunched over, making himself as small as possible. The former looking at nothing. The latter looking for something. Perhaps the promise of hidden messages on the train.

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