The best dressed man on the bus sat down. He forced a casual smile, hands placed gently on the briefcase on his lap. He looked around, hiding the sadness and pain behind his eyes. Life was stressful these days.
He alighted the bus and stepped onto the damp sidewalk. It had been raining. Three steps in and the best dressed man on the street stood in a puddle. The cold, muddy water went straight through the hole in the bottom of his right shoe. He ignored it.
He walked confidently, as a man with purpose would. Although he is not a man with purpose.
Bumped by a wayward skater, the best dressed man on the street falls to his knees. As he stands he looks down at his last pair of pants. There is one torn knee and they’re coated in the gritty sludge of the footpath.
A single tear escapes his eye. It trickles down his cheek as the blood from his knee trickles down his shin. He makes no sound.
No longer the best dressed man, he continues walking.