He played a game with people, though they never knew it. He met their eyes as he walked past, stared them down on the Tube, watched them sip coffee uncomfortably with the tension of someone who can feel foreign eyes.
He always won. Only the rare contender showed any sign of defiance before shamefully recoiling. Often they shifted uncomfortably or overeagerly jumped at their stop, neglecting to look at their merciless victor.
He was proud of his defeats. He was not wealthy or successful, but from Hammersmith to Piccadilly he was king.
But today his prey did not succumb to their king's iron glare. He stood dominant, yet watchful eyes creased into the shape of laughter. Just then a little girl moved by and said, at little too loudly, "Mr. you're fly is down,” lingering on his button-down shirt peaking through his trousers.
From then on he walked to work.
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