The man in a black t-shirt looks like an older Ray Romano, the skin of his cheeks beginning to lose it's foothold against gravity. He wears a black iPod nano snapped into a black velcro watch band, with a slender cord trailing up his arm to his headphones. He adjusts a small brown pillow between his shoulder and head. But it's not quite perfect. He adjusts again, and a tusked smile with whiskers peeks over his shoulder. He closes his eyes, cuddled up with his small stuffed walrus.
A few more stops, and he gives up on the nap. He slides out a copy of the day's paper, folded in half, and holds it in his right hand, adorned with a simple gold band on his ring finger. His brown eyes peer down his narrow nose and he begins reading as he smacks his gum. After a few minutes he pauses to check the walrus, now resting calmly on a small grey toolbox in the seat beside him.
Tucked at his feet is one Trader Joe's brown paper bag, perhaps dinner tonight. I wonder if it's clam chowder.