The man approaches you....
[Written while listening to this song on repeat]
His eyes are wide, staring straight into yours without any challenge. He seems to be seeing everything he can at once in the world around him while remaining transfixed on you. You find yourself not wanting to break his gaze out of some unnamed fear, yet remain deeply uncomfortable with continuing to stare into these eyes that see so much more than your own.
His clothes and hair are nearly clean, nearly groomed, as if he puts forth great effort into his appearance but lacks the focus needed to complete the task. His hair is parted perfectly but disheveled on either side of the part. His clothes are of good quality and unwrinkled yet show small stains and carry the scuffs one would expect to come from rougher treatment than one would put such clothes through.
He carries in his left hand a hard bound book wrapped in leather, closed with a locked clasp. The clasp is far too large for a book of its size and seems excessive to prevent unauthorized access to its pages. The leather is clean and well polished while still carrying the same scuff marks as his clothes. The book is clearly doted on lovingly at times and carelessly abused at others.
The man approaches with quick strides, smiling too broadly as he does so. The smile resist moving up to his eyes and his teeth are firmly and neatly pressed together, as if the act were learned and unfamiliar but performed with great relish. It isn't the smile one shares with a compatriot or the predatory grin upon seeing a victim, but the smile of thinking about some past or future event that will bring unequivocal enjoyment.
His hand grasps your own, thin without being bony. His firm is tight enough that you could not let go without resistance but he seems to be actively holding back from gripping hard enough to inflict pain. He continues to stare straight into, almost past and through, your eyes, plumbing their depths in a way that makes you wonder if he is finding out things about you of which you yourself are unaware.
Without preamble, he makes a simple request of you, asking if you would care to accompany him. He makes no attempt at further explanation after that simple sentence, his still-boring eyes and still-too-wide smile making it clear that was all the information you should need. You want to move away and leave this man out of a dread at what his continued presence might bring but find yourself more afraid of what efforts he may take to force the issue should you attempt to depart. Your mouth lies slightly open, wanting dearly to reject his offer but unwilling to produce any sound.
The man detects your hesitance and releases your grasp as if dropping a hot iron in order to fumble around in his luxuriously ratted coat's front pocket. Although your hand is now free, his presence still holds you in place as well as his firm grip ever did. You pull your hand back from him slightly, but resist rubbing your hands together or wiping it on your pants. Your hand feels different in a way you can't define and you fear spreading that contact further. You hear several pieces of metal clink together as he scrabbles around in his large pocket, sounding larger than small coins but of clearly different sizes and compositions. After several moments he produces a key, similarly oversized like the clasp on the book he holds, and to your surprise his eyes grow even wider upon seeing it. He quickly turns the book towards you and the key is precisely inserted into the clasp's large lock. With a careful motion he rotates the key, opening the lock with a surprisingly loud clack. He lifts back the front cover to show you the first page.
You agree to his request.
