These are the words he used to describe his discomfort: “I’m better when I sit there.” He pointed to a set of chairs, backed up to the pub’s exterior wall. 

His attentive companion tipped her head to the side, narrowing her eyes and nodding, stepped forward.

They sat, her expression suggesting uncertainty. 

But I knew.

I knew the moment I noticed him approach the sidewalk seating and sensed that he had noticed me first, and everyone else in the immediate location, assessing us within the casual, situational elements of walls, windows, furniture, dress, drunkenness, gesture, and relaxation. 

I knew when I noted the ink, resting on skin pulled tight over well-defined muscle, peering out from under his left short sleeve . . . the lower third of the gray-green letters composing the words Leave No Man Behind.

I knew when he approached the tables with a slight limp in his left leg, and again when he turned slightly to scan the seating options and the people sitting, including me, and I caught the trace of a pink scar spanning a third of his skull, camouflaged by his auburn hair, cut high and tight.

I knew when he sat, and the woman, sensing his discomfort, placed her hand in his and he half smiled, half sighed in return. 

I knew when our eyes met and I slightly smiled, nodding my gratitude and apology, and he nodded back, then tugged from his pocket a pair of aviator sunglasses and rested them on the bridge of his nose. They were too reflective for me to see his eyes or the direction of his glance.

– John Van Dreal

Note: This piece was previously published by Willawaw Journal (Winter 2017, Issue 2)