The Person I'm Next To Is A Curly Bird Man

I'm next to this guy. He is thin, super thin. He has long stringy hair, which is matched by a long stringy goatee. His nose is impressively big. He has a burrito on a plate in front of him, it is only about half done, but from the way he is poking at it with his fork I think he is all done.
From what I can gather he is regaling his table with his high opinions on the 90's scifi movie Dark City. It is a pretty nerdy speech, but I suppose I'm pretty nerdy too, because I can tell which movie he is talking about from a few eavesdropped sentences. Also I totally agree with him, Dark City rules.
What's weird is that is he is squatting on his chair. Like feet square on the chair, perched. He has been sitting like this for at least an hour. Just crowing about weird movies and picking at his food and waving his wildly beak-ish nose around. Every now and then he gets animated and waves his arms around.
He is so perfect.

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The Person I'm Next To Has Caused Me To Explode With Self Hate

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The Person I’m Next to has Created a Strange Logical Model of the Universe

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I am next to this svelte gentleman ordering at a coffee shop. He is very thin and has accepted this fact. He is dressed in fitted clothes that accentuate his overabundance of underabundance. His shirt is a white button-down, with the sleeves rolled crisply to mid-forearm. It is tucked into pants that are... problematic, more on this later. He has tan loafers on, and he has eschewed socks. He has a lanky confidence to his stance; leaning over the counter splaying his angles with a social comfort that I envy. Moreover, he seems nice, chatting nonchalantly as he orders his coffee. No soy milk? Oh, no problem, I’ll just take it black, thanks for checking though. So, pants. They are nice pants. They are well fitted and cuffed to about mid-ankle. They complete his look, and despite this next sentence that look is a timeless cool dude sort of look. The pants are bright orange. Very bright, like poisonous toad bright. Like a freshly made traffic cone, ready to avert...

The Person I am Next to is Saving Over 3 Hours Annually

I am next to this guy. He is weathering a heathered purple tee, fitted tan jeans, and gray canvas shoes. He has a scruffy beard, big headphones, and expressive eyebrows. Eyebrows that just gave me a condescending waggle. This waggle is, presumably, referencing my use of sidewalks. We are in a park, and in the fashion of most public greens, the sidewalks are meandering devices, more concerned with rose smelling than pedestrian efficiency. But, Tan Jeans is unconvinced by their suggestion of an idle pace. Our paths cross as he enters the park. We seem to be headed in the same direction. I am bound by these fascist sidewalks, this intrepid son of Magellan has plotted a new course. A straight fucking line. This is where he shoots me that patronizing look. Then, he boldly steps from concrete. Shocked and cowed by the genius of his revolutionary trailblazing, I sheepishly fall behind his blistering pace, herded along a preset path. He reaches the edge of the pa...

The People I'm Next to are a Baldness Gradient

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The Person I’m Next To Unexpectedly Resorted to Brutality

I’m next to this man. His look suggests mildness. He has sandy hair just short enough to stick straight out, giving his head a great blurry halo. His facial features are similarly rounded with all gentle curves. He is the type of guy that would be very easy to imagine as a stuffed animal version of himself. When I first see him, he is standing in front of an automatic paper towel dispenser in a coffee shop. He has a tablet in one hand, and a coffee mug in the other. He looks at a nearby counter, which is a bit wet, then back at his tablet. After a few seconds of consternation, he realizes he can spare his electronics and just set down the coffee. He chuckles at his indecision, then looks over at me with an expression that says ‘oh silly me’. I reply with a nod that says, ‘I-recognize-your-former-dilemma-and-I-applaud-your-decision-but-can-we-maybe-get-this-towel-train-moving-my-own-mug-has-some-coffee-spilling-down-its-side-and-I’d like-to-handle-it’. He ...

The Person I'm Next To Is One With His Tamale

I'm next to this guy who is sitting in front of a styrofoam plate of tamales, under the coiled Christmas lights of a food truck's tent. He's here by himself, aside from the four tamale friends that he has briefly found. He's "not a small man," which is my polite way of saying that he is quite fat. He's shaped like a wide diamond. Aside from the protrusions you would expect from him being both human and male, he'd form a pretty good triangle if you folded him hamburger style. But this is about tamales, not hamburgers. He is eating his tamales slowly with the care and grace of someone basking in a rare moment of transcendence. There's a hint of something else, too--as if he's taking care to avoid a catastrophic misstep. The mix is about four parts "that feeling of slowly lowering yourself into a perfect bath," one part "action hero figuring out the color scheme of timebomb wires." After each bite, he closes his eyes and quietl...

The Person I’m Next to Might Own a Battle Axe

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The Person I am Next To is More Apologetic than is Necessary

I’m next to this smoker. He is nondescript, and only my own habit pushes me to note his look. He comes in a bit under six feet and is of a medium build. He has a pair of khakis, and a grayish-green and a tie with a checked pattern on it. As I pass, he briefly and deliberately locks gazes with me. His unsurprisingly brown eyes crinkle a bit at the corners as he presses his lips together in a thin smile. He gestures with his cigarette, and I realize he is apologizing. I awkwardly shrug at him, hoping I am absolving him on any secondhand sin. Glancing back a few moments later, I catch him turning his head and politely blowing a thin stream of smoke to the side, despite the fact we are entirely alone on this street. There is something strangely sad about this kind-hearted, if useless, gesture. Here this guy is, risking life and lung for a five-minute chemical respite from his worries. Yet, this very practice seems to carry some sort of stress. How much does his concern ov...

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