A short man, Southeast Asian…Cambodian?

I see him in passing every seventh time I walk from my bus stop to my office in the morning.

His balding hair slicked back like fresh tarmac, nearly impervious to light. It seems to absorb warmth which I can only assume feeds his aura.

His protruding, nearly bug-like eyes dart left, then right, then left. Right again. I get the sense he is watching for something, or someone.

His right hand is kept, invariably, in his coat pocket; his left clutches the remains of a filtered cigarette to which he clings like some sort of sickly life raft. He takes approximately two puffs that I can see each time we pass.

He walks purposefully, as if in a slight hurry to arrive at his destination, but not rushing too much.

He appears, by all estimation, to be a man who knows his way around a pair of pliers and a blowtorch with deft efficiency.

I feel as if I know him somehow, although my conscious mind knows this to be impossible.

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