Around 9:07 in the evening yesterday night, I was waiting for the O'Hare outbound train amid the winter air when I witnessed a tensed up man down the station's corridor with a friend, who was attending to his troubled stance of sorrow, angst, and, at least from my perspective, a little lost. My train would be arriving in a few minutes, so now my entire focus was on the Rolling Stones in my ears and on this man, now with a hand to his left cheek to shadow any emotion from afar. At one moment he turned toward the station's window panels and punched the air a few times, a mannerism I've seen only in ghetto fiends who get upset over the most frivolous of matters. His companion merely stood by with a hand on one shoulder in order to at least try to calm the poor fool down. Unfortunately I have no clue as to what he was sobbing about, for only his actions spoke dialogue like a silent film where we just have to assume without the assistance of subtitles in-between scenes. The pair remained dormant in their little secured area of emotionality - that's when my train arrived, taking one final look at the tensed up bloke down at the station and wishing that I knew just what the hell the world has done to this perturbed denizen.
I named him Antonio, because he reminds me of someone from my past.
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