Red hair, and a formerly pale complexion, the quick glance, that first image. Angry, and a disquiet thought includes a joke about Red-Heads and emotions, but the seething diatribe makes it obvious this one step beyond normal.

The manager at What–A–Burger is short, maybe, less than five feet tall, perhaps as wide, clearly Latin in her orientation. We joke. I make a passing comment about being an obedient date, nod towards my apparent companion, the blonde. The manager smiles broadly, strong, white teeth flashing against the beautiful dark skin. Merry eyes danced under some dark eyeliner.

“His nickname, we all call him ‘Danny,’ for lack of any other connection,” she says, with a nod towards the front door.

Besides a clean–shaven, sun–crisp face even-complexion and his haunted, angry demeanor, he’s curious. Medium height, slight, but wiry build, dark eyes that are clearly haunted. His shirt is a red knock–off polo shirt over a clean, white t-shirt. As he passes there’s that all too–familiar aromatic blend of unwashed bodies and vehicle exhaust, with a slight tobacco–infused finish to the mix, like the way some cigarette smokers smell when they walk in from their smoke break.

He stalks through the counter area then angles around the booths and tables, muttering vehemently as he exits. He strides purposefully, and the white T-shirt — looks clean — the edges hang below the hemmed slash of red from the polo. His khaki pants look clean, not the usual grime associated with apparently homeless madmen.

He angrily strides out, muttering at his unseen demons.

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