I witnessed a decrepit elderly man walk into the diner. He reached into his denim pocket and proceeded to pull out a handmade cigarette. The man's hands were as creased as an elephant's skin. His face carried a blank expression and his hands trembled with Parkinson's as he attempted to light the smoke. The rigid, speckled mustache that hung below his bulbous nose looked like it had been clinging on for centuries. From my seat, 5 booths away, I began to smell the smoke wafting in the air. I look towards him and realized that he was staring back at me. His eyes were glazed over like there was a layer of smoke consuming them. His brows were furrowed into the shape of a "V" as he glared in my direction. I began to get an uneasy feeling as he stood up and sauntered past me. The man's eyes glued on me as he passed and walked through the back door with his cigarette still hanging precariously from his mouth. I waited a minute then ran from the diner, with his image forever burned in my mind.