The smoke clings to him so heavily, I had to look twice to see that no he did not, in fact, have one lit. Beyond that is the unmistakable smell of stale hops, sickeningly sweet and sad. The mix is reminiscent of that of a just-closed bar before the sanitizing bleach takes over, in the hours before the morning stragglers come in chasing the hair of the dog. I wonder to myself if that is precisely the explanation of his odor, and am quickly embarrassed by my rude judgment.

His thick gray beard matches the mop of scraggly hair haphazardly thrown into a double ponytail at the nape of his neck, secured by an unlikely pink elastic. Perhaps it was left behind from the daughter his wife took long ago; a sad reminder that matches the sorrowed defeat in his eyes as he stares out of the window, waiting for his destination. His hands lie loosely clasped in his lap and tell of years of hard labor, with thick fingers encased in hard callouses that will never come completely clean no matter how vigorously he tries to scrub. The camouflaged coat he wears appears to mirror the man; the seams trying to cling together valiantly yet losing the battle to years of wear and tear.

As the bus grinds to a halt and he ambles past towards the door, the long-ago sewn-on tag reveals a name - Harrow. That is somehow perfectly fitting to me, although I haven't the faintest idea why. As the doors open, the realization hits that I have been so engulfed in my analyzation of this sullen creature that I forgot where I was. Hurriedly grabbing my bag, I stand and rush to get through the doors before the impatient driver pulls them shut. A blast of cold air carries his smoky-sweet scent, and as it finds me again, I think to myself that a beer actually does sound pretty damn good right now.