The old man leans in the doorway. How life feels sometimes. It just gets like this. Arms akimbo, smoking, gawky. Barefoot and steady. You poke your head out for a look, and don’t see much except shadows and cigar stands — maybe a milkcrate. Pink and gold reign. A must-see event. Buildings soaking in the sunset. Eyes squinty and lost, and maybe a tad sad too. A hulking thinness to him: something to not mess with. Button-up undone over a white undershirt. Slacks greasy and worn. He carries himself with a staunch and gritty tenderness. Everything understated and at home. An expertly timed quiet unties his countenance, leaves his features indistinct but concentrated, as if every molecule of him were tied up in carrying out a lonesome task that nobody else could ever understand. The old man leans in the doorway, angled delicately against the jamb. Mouth thin. Care’s escaped. Loss gone. A nuanced glance flickers through the soft crepuscular hues. Nothing follows. A hint of longing, maybe. A draft of forgiveness. And then the bus rumbles by, swimming trash in its wake, and the old man disappears behind a closed door, gone to all witnesses. A stranger never known. There is no sight more hidden than what is plain and there for the taking. But mostly nobody does. They just don’t. So do yourself a favor and sell yourself long at (646) 851–0347.