He was in Barnes and Noble. An old man, white hair. Old blue eyes that looked more grey than blue.
He would hold up a book when people passed. "Would you like to read my book of poems. It's about me and my daughter."
His tone was frail. Hopeful.
People rarely made eye-contact. Sometimes they'd politely nod, smile, say no thank you. Sometimes they'd actually stop, feign interest. But most of the time they walked on by. And the old man would wait patiently at the table filled with his poem books.
I was a few isles over, watching. Each time he held up the book, I was crushed. Won't someone buy his book? But still, I just watched. And when it came time to leave, I took the long way around.