He's hunched over his food. A hamburger, it looks like. And fries. He's pouring himself ketchup. Good boy. He doesn't watch the bottle while he does it. He's reading. A thick book. You can't see what it is. Probably something you've not read, haven't even heard of. Watch him run his hand over the top of his baseball hat, worn and blue and loved more than most things he will leave an impression on over time without realizing he has. He's biting his finger nail, the side of it, the same way you do, the same way you are right now, and were two minutes ago. This time of day does that to you, and apparently you're not alone. His hair is some blond variation of brown, and it sticks out from under the hat in a clever way that makes you think of a boy named Hans from high school, who you had a crush on for years. Hans had red hair and was not very smart, but it's amazing what being left handed and carelessly sweet will make up for. You once ran into him after college, thousands of miles from anywhere he should have been, and he recognized you instantly. You soared. Look at him turn the pages, never raising his face, so you'll not know if he has kind eyes or if he bites his lip when he takes in words. You'll just know the bridge of his nose.
The light turns green and you go.