I sat down at the empty table at the same time that the owner of the curious belongings wouldreturn to his table. He was in his mid 20s and scruffy. Scruffy, not in an intentional way. He appeared to be clean shaven, and put together, even what some may call attractive. Still he seemed scruffy to me, in a way that only life could give. Maybe it was the premature lines on his face or a certain chip on his shoulder, but it seemed whatever life he had been living, he had been living it hard.ver life he had been living, he had been living it hard.
He made brief eye contact with me as he sat down and began telling me a story about his day. He spoke as if we were old friends, as if he had already introduced himself and knew that I would be interested in the story he came in with. He was not flirty nor suggestive, just matter of fact-ly and sincere.
