The Listener (A Short Story)

I saw a man with pale skin and dark hair sitting on a park bench alone.  He sat still and peaceful.  I watched his face, intrigued.  What was I seeing?  He focused, but on nothing that I could see.  He seemed in deep thought, but not exactly.  He didn't have any ear plugs in as if listening to music or talking on the phone.  Ear plugs.  Music.  Phone.  These gave me clues to what I thought I saw.  Focused, yet not on trees or people or squirrels.  Focused, yet not on thoughts or memories.  His face didn't betray the worry of someone thinking about the future, nor the anger of a conversation gone wrong, nor the sadness of a conversation that never happened.  But his look had the same feel as one deep in thought, or as one who had ear plugs in.  Then I knew.  I made the connections.

The man listened.

But to who?

His face had the look of understanding, of connecting with someone.  But there was no one there.  He resembled someone with earplugs in that he seemed to listen to some internal source.  Of course.  Whoever he listened to was inside of him.  That's exactly how it looked.  It's like someone in him spoke to him, and it was also as if he spoke back.  The serenity and clarity on his face gave me the clue.  But I think I always knew who he spoke to.