The lift doors judder close behind me, making sounds that if I wasn't used to from having ridden in this lift hundreds of times would be somewhat alarming; It only occasionally breaks down trapping people for hours so it'll probably be cool. I gently tap the button for my floor with my finger before raising my gaze from the floor.
The man stares at me from behind his glasses. He looks, well not so much old, more worn; when Bilbo describes the rings effect on his longevity he describes it as like butter scraped over too much bread. That would seem apt. He seems stretched out.
He blinks his blue eyes as he in turn studies my face, his right eye looks a bit watery and unfocused, it squints a bit. The area round them looks dry, red and sore. The area round my eyes feels itchy just looking at them and I suppress an urge to itch. It's not just his sunken sallow eyes that look like that though, its his whole face. It's red and dry and cracked and has a haunted look to it. It springs to mind a guy who I used to work with; we called him the Sea Captain because it was an accurate description, if you saw him you'd know. He was always a jolly chap, a pipe in his mouth and a salty cackle of a laugh on his lips; but towards the end when things started piling up on him and the stress grew it manifested in a very physical sense, adding years on to him in the span of months. Things, didn't end we'll for him.
I glance around and hum The Little Spanish Flea and try to avoid further eye contact; but slowly inevitably my gaze is drawn back to him. He quirks an apologetic half smile at me, a few grey hairs have taken up residence in his beard along with a few strays around his ears. His smile fades and he returns to his apparently default sorrowful look.
The lift stops and the doors open, it’s a good six inches below the actual floor; a new personal best for it! Maybe one day it will actual stop at the floor level. I give the man a wan smile that he returns.
“34” We say together, before I step out of the lift both knowing it's not just an age thing.
The man stares at me from behind his glasses. He looks, well not so much old, more worn; when Bilbo describes the rings effect on his longevity he describes it as like butter scraped over too much bread. That would seem apt. He seems stretched out.
He blinks his blue eyes as he in turn studies my face, his right eye looks a bit watery and unfocused, it squints a bit. The area round them looks dry, red and sore. The area round my eyes feels itchy just looking at them and I suppress an urge to itch. It's not just his sunken sallow eyes that look like that though, its his whole face. It's red and dry and cracked and has a haunted look to it. It springs to mind a guy who I used to work with; we called him the Sea Captain because it was an accurate description, if you saw him you'd know. He was always a jolly chap, a pipe in his mouth and a salty cackle of a laugh on his lips; but towards the end when things started piling up on him and the stress grew it manifested in a very physical sense, adding years on to him in the span of months. Things, didn't end we'll for him.
I glance around and hum The Little Spanish Flea and try to avoid further eye contact; but slowly inevitably my gaze is drawn back to him. He quirks an apologetic half smile at me, a few grey hairs have taken up residence in his beard along with a few strays around his ears. His smile fades and he returns to his apparently default sorrowful look.
The lift stops and the doors open, it’s a good six inches below the actual floor; a new personal best for it! Maybe one day it will actual stop at the floor level. I give the man a wan smile that he returns.
“34” We say together, before I step out of the lift both knowing it's not just an age thing.
Labels: Birthday, Lord of The Rings, personal, Stress, work
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