looking into the sun

one.
he was a man of five foot nine. His heart was strong and his eyes were kind. The sort of eyes owned by someone carrying a wounded soul and a heavy burden. I could tell we were going to get along well. As he approached me, his long brown trench coat swayed with the motion of his steps. An outstretched hand. After careful examination and a soft bow of my head, I accepted the gesture and placed my small delicate hands in his. His hands were rough and callused. I felt their hurt. He smiled at me gently, his eyes carefully studying me, searching through the cluttered mess of my past. Time was getting heavier. We did not say a word. There was no need to, we had already conversed with our eyes.

After all, eyes can hear the words we would never say.

two.
where we were going, I could not yet assume. The time was eleven thirty. We had passed 2nd Avenue probably a hundred times by now, but I didn't mind- I was used to walking. We had planned to have lunch, but seeing as neither of us had much of an appetite we decided to take a walk instead. It was a cold december morning, like the kind you used to wake up to as a kid and taste the frost in the air. The streets were calm and silent, with only a few people roaming the sidewalks. We walked at a slow and steady pace, exchanging short comments of observations here and there but otherwise trying to perserve the peaceful stillness around us. I remembered his silence. He had always maintained a sense of calm that was both agrivating and admirable. My cherry-red lips parted into a smile hidden under a disarray of dark auburn curls. I remembered him well.