As I turned to go a face caught my eye. It was hard to tell his real age; 30? 40? 50?
He had one of those faces that is hard to judge, but the eyes, the eyes were not.
They spoke of pain and hurt, and yet there was compassion too,
You could imagine them once having had a twinkle, a hint of that remained, just a tiny hint.
But as I looked more I got a sense of something lost, that things could have been different,
Given different circumstances.
I wondered if he had been a clever man, or proud, or (just) an everyday man?
Something in his shoulders hinted at pride, but a pride now buried after years of torment,
He had the look of a man beaten, and maybe bowed, but certainly not cowed.
And as I searched his face I saw the core of a good man that could be good again,
Given the right circumstances.
As I watched I sensed a change, his demeanour hardened and I looked away, embarrassed.
Glancing back, he seemed to be still watching and I felt angry at his interruption of my study.
The atmosphere had changed now, I openly bristled back and sensed the hate within him.
Looking at him, the anger in his face, I decided I really didn’t like him after all. Nor could I,
Under any circumstances.
Resignedly, I turned and walked away from the man in the mirror.