Everyday on my commute to work there is always a familiar face as if it is greeting me reminding me this day will be the same safe day as the rest. The face doesn’t look very much alive anymore as if the light inside of them has been switched to off and no one has bothered to try and flip it back. He has thinning grey hair on top of his shiny wrinkled forehead. A drooping nose to match his drooping eye bags that hold his glazed over blue eyes. His mouth is curled down the same as his neck. His head never looks up as if he was a puppet whose puppeteer forgot to pull his strings back up to continue his cheery show.
He wears a grey suit that eerily matches his aura. The only thing that shines are his black dress shoes. I always assumed he was a worn out businessman who went to college a little too long to sit behind a desk for hours on end. Until one day when something bright in his hand shined like a glimpse of hope just a hand spasm away from slipping out of his hands.
He gripped tightly onto the delicate, deep, red rose as he rounded the corner on South avenue and Wesley Highway. He slumped to the ground, against a brick wall in the middle of a busy city sidewalk, as he usually does on my normal route to work.