I sit in the corner booth of a busy diner watching a group of men at the bar. Most of them have only one drink in front of them but they seem not to need the drinks. At first, they seem to be just a group of friends out for the night but as I continue watching, I become more and more fascinated. They all sit with slumped shoulders and run their hands over their faces with increasing regularity as the night progresses. Their eyes flicker between everyone in the diner without seeming to, looking up whenever someone enters or exits. In between bursts of conversation, they sit in companionable silence.
My gaze eventually fixes on one of the younger men. His short, dark hair sticks up on end as if he's run his hand through it before. His dark t-shirt and jeans look rumpled, hanging lopsided off his slumped frame. I can't stop watching him. Maybe it's the way his gaze drops to his hands in between conversations. Maybe it's how his mischievous grin appears for only seconds and never reaches his eyes. He often doesn't join in the conversations but I can tell he's listening. He begins to spin an object around in his fingers, sparking concerned looks from his friends. One by one, they begin to leave, each of them patting him on the back or saying a few words to him before doing so. He gives them brief, tight smiles before dropping his gaze.
Finally, when the last of his friends have gone, he seems to let loose. He buries his face in his hands and heaves a sigh. He declines the bartender's offer of another drink, preferring to keep nursing the half-empty one he already has. As I keep watching him, he looks up and around the diner, catching my eyes before I can shift my gaze. The expression in his eyes strikes a chord within me and I find I have to look away. When I look back, he is gone.
AN: I wrote this for a descriptive writing exercise in english class. Let me know if you think it needs continuing. I do not own Flashpoint. Please review!