I met an old man with a castaway’s beard and a toughened leather jacket. Had it not been a different colour from his reddened skin, it would have been difficult to separate the layers.
His eyes gleamed almost joyfully as he met my stare.
A fraction of a second, I walked past and he slowly clamped his fist shut with his thumb pointed straight up, skywards.
I smiled and plodded on.
No words passed between us in that short second. Yet those wrinkles etched into his old skin had stories to tell.