David

Nothing about him strikes the imagination, which is why I force myself to look. His blue, collared long-sleeve is tucked into khaki pants. The shirt fits well, but is not tailored, and I assume the pants are straight-fit. He wears glasses, as a constant fixture I would guess, from the the thin wire rims inconspicuously formed into the indents just behind is temples and resting on his ears. I might also assume they are purely of functional use, devoid of fashion, if they didn’t compliment the rest of his look so neatly. His haircut looks cheap and regular, chopped short with no discernible style, and just like his glasses and khakis seems a calculated move to be merely unnoticed, neither appealing nor unattractive. I already have a guess in my mind before I look at his shoes, and his sensible discount loafers confirm the theory. My next guess is at his left ring finger, and again confirmed I with confidence decide on the man’s profession. Something financial feels right, possibly mortgages; I have no doubt his work is used by many and understood by few. Armed with such observation and prejudice, I decide he has the face of a thinker, but not of grand thoughts. He is a man of narrow expertise, worldly stresses, and singular goals which he has thus far had little trouble achieving. He stands: his belt is missing. A morning rush, hurrying the kids to school while taking extra care to not disturb his pregnant wife? Or maybe he just prefers it that way, a man of pragmatism over fashion’s dictates.

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