He is the first person I’ve seen who can be so aptly described by ‘diminutive.’ It is not that he looks young because he is so small, or strange, or otherwise out of place. He is simply diminutive.
His upper lip sports a thick, well-kept moustache. His head sports groomed and tousled hair. His body sports clothes of the kind that L. L. Bean makes; sensible, sturdy, casual classy. Today it is a deep red sweatervest with a golden seal over the front pocket of the dress shirt underneath, navy blue slacks, and what appear to be some cross between tennis shoes, hiking boots, and dress shoes.
He carries the two canvas briefcases, as always, and the one small lunchbox-style shoulder bag with half-empty hand sanitizer in the mesh pocket on the side. He does not wear glasses, but they would not be out of place on his head. Instead, his eyes are framed by thick, black lashes that, like the rest of his facial features, hearken back to some vaguely Hispanic ancestry.
On his right wrist is a watch and a yellow Livestrong bracelet; on his finger is a class ring with a bright blue stone set in it. His hands are delicate.
He looks five and fifty years old at the same time.
He never speaks, but if he did, I like to imagine that it would be in a lilting voice, and he would only say lovely, sensitive, insightful things. I hope he never proves me wrong.