It’s already a few days past, but somehow, this guy keeps creeping up in my memories. Not because of any (non-existing) dashing good looks, but because he wants to be taken to the medium he actually belongs into: a stage play or a short story.

He was a young man, maybe 18 to 20 years old, approximately the same height as I am, with unkempt, very light blonde hair. He wore darkly rimmed glasses that seemed at odds with his soft features. It appeared to be a bit too big for him — indeed, all his clothes seemed to big for him either: trousers that were folded up several times, a black, thin jacket of which the sleeves made his hands all but dissappear.

He made the impression as if he had to grow into all of this first and making a serious attempt about it: as the most prominent and in the same time too invisible feature in his face was a blonde, whispy moustache, that was trying very hard to hide his boyish looks, and failed miserably at that. He would still look like a boy in clothes too big and a glued-on moustache.

Now isn’t that a person you’d expect to meet in a short story or a stage — and not sitting opposite you on the train?