I studied his face: he wore a blank, distant stare; his eyes devoid of color or emotion. His hair was greasy and unkempt, unwashed for days. The strands extended halfway down his forehead, curling and tangling at the ends. His face was slick with oil. Small bouts of acne flared up where his hair met his skin. His eyebrows were thick and ungroomed, meeting ever so slightly in the center. His face was expressionless; every muscle relaxed, and the corners of his mouth curled into a gentle frown. His eyes were cast downward, with the angle of his gaze causing the outline of his spine to protrude from the base of his neck. His shoulders were slumped forward, causing his already short stature to appear even smaller. His skin was pale, denoting the countless hours he had spent alone in this room. He raised his gaze to meet mine. His frame was frail; his movements hesitant and timid. "The pitiable soul," I thought to myself as I stared into his somber eyes. How can a man like this aspire to such lofty goals? How can a man like this form meaningful connections with others? How can a man like this even call himself a man? In an instant I could see it: the tinge of pain that ran across his face. The first bit of emotion on that expressionless stare. He could sense it: the thoughts I had to myself, and he thought them too. In quiet defeat, he slowly pressed his forhead to mine, and a feeble sigh escaped his lips. I pulled my head back, wiped the smudge of oil my forehead had left on the glass, and returned to my bed.
