She looked at me. And then looked at him. A sideways glance. A spurious attempt at solidarity with me. As if to say "you and I are the same, but look at him sitting next to me. He's not like us." I ignored her. “What makes you think you’re so special?” I thought to myself. He continued to speak with his rough but animated hands and through a faintly oblivious smile, he drew pictures across the air. But I could still see the translucent shadow across his eyes that dimmed the light, conveying the sadness within. I smiled. I listened. I watched. Those hands. So rough. Scored deeply with the dark cumulative impressions of a lifetime of hard graft. A part of me was angry. How dare she look her nose down at this man. With the rough hands. And the stories pouring through his lips.