Prague Platform

I never made eye contact with him.  On the platform, the Spaniard held a suitcase with his right hand.  His fingers were like fat sausages squeezed together tightly in a jar, preserved in vinegar.  He held a hand rolled cigarette and pressed his thick hand to his mouth and took a drag that crackled like the beginning of a small fire.  I thought for sure during his boisterous exhale he'd make eye contact, but I only saw his tobacco colored eyes, he didn't see mine.