He reminded me of Roald Dahl. A real life BFG. Maybe that was cruel but it seemed fictional. the bright blue sweater, the caution sign, the notebook, and the growth on his head. He had his keys on his books and notebook, a professor she assumed but he sat and stared and she stared at him. Curious as to what could possibly be going through his elderly mind, he pondered and would occasionally scratch the back of his neck he looked at unease the more I kept looking. constantly changing his position and his hands.
What was the growth on his head? The BFG would say it was a magical mark. Adventure could pick him and he’d be transported to other worlds of goblins and ghouls, fairies of giggles and wizards of knowledge and power. She saw him as an evil character, his painful appearance. his brutal demeanor. Moving spots not once, twice, but three times where would it lead him next? She imagined he’d be on a horse accompanying a lost boy on a voyage to the fourth dimension looking for a precious stone or young girl, he’d die along the way releasing bits of small wisdom and a small artifact that would make the entire plot make sense. No but this one. The real life character, perhaps his growth was cancer. or a specific rare disorder that would cause death upon him in months and he kept changing perspective in this coffee shop because he was angry. Brooding. Frustrated at the convos and cheery pop music through the speakers. He'd grunt, hum, and mosey his way out. Only staying for the shortest of 53 minutes. And she wondered what BFG was going home too? Probably no one, but a wall of pictures. Of family? trips? a late wife? no. She imagined a house. Filled to the brim. Disgusted. Dishes in the sink. Mad papers and writings scattered. piles of movies n books and cockroaches crawling and the most beat up recliner you’d ever see. And at night he’d get to his underwear, socks still on, a white tank top rub his bald head and sigh as his head hit the pillow. look up at the ceiling and go to sleep. and tomorrow will go on.