He is sitting on a plastic chair, his hands at the edge of the arms of the chair. He is wearing a blue shirt, the back of which is soaked from sweat. He always wears full sleeved shirts, even in summers. He has carefully rolled up the sleeves of his shirt exactly three times, and precisely set it to end just below his elbow. His feet are crossed, the right one a little raised, as if beating a tune against the flimsy table. His hair, once falling all over his forehead, is now only a shadow of its previous self, as if just marking its presence for the sake of formality.
His smile is frozen at a particular time in the past at some long forgotten joke.
I wish I had more than his photograph.