48 years old, balding on top, knock-kneed, beer gut, creased forehead, gray-blue eyes, gold watch, bloodshot contacts, dry elbows, three silver fillings, button-down shirt, fading brown parted hair, trimmed nails, shaved smooth, some twinges in his chest when he felt nervous.
or ashamed. he had pulled into the empty parking lot of a motel. the faded walls were peeling, one dim light on in the office, too early for any of the regular traffic. he turned off the engine, sat perfectly still listening to the radio prattle on unconcerned. when the noise in his own head grew too loud, he switched off the radio and pushed back his seat, leaned over and buried his face in his hands.
the accumulations of a guilty conscience had finally breached the flood walls of his soul. it was the first clear sign he had had in many years that he had a soul. he had often wondered why he couldn't feel... anything. now that his cowardice had wasted a life before his very eyes, he felt all too much. he knew he could have stopped it. but he had just watched it happen. ah! what wouldn't he give to start over, go back, apologize, forgive, repair, erase? to soften his hard heart.