I saw him as I walked through the parking lot.
He was sitting in a small, banged-up red car.
His brightly-colored polo told me he worked in the mega-store.
The one I had just come out of.
His race told me why he worked there.
He looked young, maybe twenty.
I won’t pretend to say that he was ugly.
The windows were rolled down; it was hot outside.
I wondered why he was sitting in the car.
I felt like there should be music pounding, but I heard nothing.
His eyes looked red, as if he’d been crying.
His cheek glistened with what could have been tear that had not been wiped away.
I saw him lift his hands to his eyes as I drove out of the lot.
I wondered why he had been crying, if he had been crying, even.
I still am not so sure if I didn’t imagine it all.
I don’t know his name and I don’t know his story.
He made me hurt inside.
He made me want to know his story.
He made me want to know his name.