Shadow

There is a man I see when I wander town. He's there so often it seems to me he follows. At the supermarket, I see him. I see him walking on my side of the sidewalk. I see him at the Latin store the one time of the year I walk in there. He often wears sunglasses, I seldom see his eyes. His face is thick like leather, his cheeks fallen slightly off to the sides. He reminds me of a minotaur that resembles a man. He often wears the blue suit of a mechanic. I sometimes wonder what he does. His mustache is thick under his thick nose. His hair is short and curly. His sideburns thick like mud. His skin is always darker hued, and even in the crevasses formed by the wrinkles on the surface of his skin. He reminds me of the awful, patriarchal men that hang out in hotel lobbies, smoking cigars, discussing with others about their money and their lovers. He reminds of the kind of man that would seduce our mother's heart and crush it, then leave it out to dry. That's why I've never crossed words with him, if today merely a gentle smile, one to acknowledge his presence. Neither has he stopped me to talk. He's older, and therefore I would think wiser, so it is not up to me to seek out his conversation. I do not know what he'd have to say, or if he says much. He reminds me in some ways of the myths about the devil that are so common emerging for old Honduran ladies' tongues. He seems he works hard, but so does the devil.