This fellow was an interesting man; he fidgeted in his small space, hogging the only clear view of the scenic land rising. He was a smoker–his staleness was nauseating–and a drinker, taking advantage of a nice gesture to continue a needed conversation for one, and an unwelcome one for the other.
He was tall, lanky, and dressed too young and ghetto for so many wrinkles and such little hair. I later discovered his thick accent was Cuban as he vividly spilled his escape from the grasps of Castro nearly three decades before. With that in mind, he was excited at the opportunity to return with hopes of progression in tow, and only dreamed of warm weather until he fled back. Yet, he remained in the Northeast, twitching from the stress and explained with bitterness that it was due to his children’s love for snow.
I feel he was constantly searching for another escape, and then again, and again.