Boys Don't Cry.

He was in his mid twenties, I think. His face, as pale as snow, was partially covered by his hand holding a phone. He was lean, tall and stooping forward a little. He was standing rigid at the corner, across the elevator. He was speaking softly on the phone like he was trying to assure someone on the other side, something which was beyond assurance. Tears were rolling down his face but he was not making any attempt to wipe them off. Somewhere at a distance I could hear a woman’s mournful cry.  However, this man was oblivious to everything like his goal was to mend the other person over the phone. His despair was very private and required no solace. I glanced at him while I got in the elevator and the doors closed.

Just another day in the hospital.

About the photo: Gloomy day in Tampa.