The man on the other side of the room looking at me, is smiling.
He’s wearing a yellow t-shirt, even though it’s winter and a pair of sandals.
He’s also about forty years younger than me.
It’s difficult for me to pinpoint exactly which of these things is annoying me the most, but it is the smile that is making me nervous today.
I feel like waving, but I know he won’t wave back: he’ll just keeps on smiling.
It’s not smugness, it appears to be honest happiness; he is happy to be there on the other side of the room both forty years ago and forty years now.
He is smiling at his girlfriend who doesn’t talk to him anymore, so it’s just as well she too isn’t here in the room in any way other than a memory.
Besides there is no room.
In the room.
This room.
My room.
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