A man walked in to my office. He took a seat in the chair across from me. I waited for him to say something, as he took of his hat. Whatever words that were on the end his tongue seemed to decay immediately as soon as his mouth opened and air rushed in. He tried to make eye contact, but his face would begin to flush. He'd glance away quickly as if he somehow managed to put up a dam a split second before water came crashing down over a rural valley town. I thought he was going to weep. I could only imagine what it would sound like. He had rough laborer-looking hands, yet something said he was intelligent given his mannerisms. I wondered if he did cry, would it sound like a walrus being disemboweled? Would the pain really end even after the tears were gone? I did not want to know at the moment.
I remembered I had a jar of warm water on a small file cabinet behind me. I poured and passed him a cup of water. He waved a thanks at me pursing his lips, though the rest of his face scrunched up. The only sound I heard was the water going into his mouth, and flowing down his throat. It reminded me of the sound of a whirlpool after I drain a bathtub or sink.
I think he finished in two or three sips. I did not watch him thoroughly enough as he drank. He was considerate enough to put the glass on an empty coaster near the edge of my sun damaged desk. My hand was covering part of my mouth when I thought he was ready to say something. He looked up at me. We briefly made eye contact, to which I gestured with my face-covering hand, opening my palm to the ceiling flexing my fingers out at him to stimulate some dialog.
He made an open palm and waved his hand left and right leaving his arm in place, making a "No." I shrugged and he stood up. He seemed as if he was about to shake my hand before I saw him reach behind himself. I shot him a glance and my hawkish eye-brows compacting them downward as I focused on him. I felt one of my fingers rub against the slightly warm steel of the Walther on my lower back. I was slightly relieved he paid me no attention as I saw the corner of his wallet from the edge of his trousers.
He smiled painfully, and put a $20 bill on the table and briskly walked out without gesturing at me further. I didn't even hear the door lock as he carefully, yet quickly, opened and closed the cheap communist Chinese manufactured door.
I left the bill on my desk for several hours wondering about him. He wasn't pretty, or ugly. He wasn't poor, but he didn't appear to be rich. I could have spent hours getting somewhere on who this was, given his appearance and clothing, yet the only thing that was of any interest to me was why he said so much without saying a word. My questions went nowhere, so I went back the the paper's crossword section and hoped for a new customer or returning client.
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