The brush works, creating the own personal soundtrack to his world. Looking at him, one may only see the arrogant jut of his wrinkled chin, the defiant, angry glare in frosty eyes, or even the thin hair linking his brows. The way his shoulders point away from his awkward, hunched body may make bile rise in your throats. His slow shuffle may annoy you when you want something to be done quickly. The younger generation may shrink away from him when they spy the dead skin clinging to the wiry pins of his there-not-there beard.
He's but an old man now, sixty-two and has never been loved. He is only allowed to continue working at the airport because his employers feel sorry for the old man. This doesn't stop them becoming frustrated at his slow working pace though.
It seems as if the man has lost any motivation in life, having never had a sweetheart, a lover. Not even his mother loved him. Nobody can see the beautiful mind inside.
Pale white skin spits from him mouth into his mouldy yellow hankie. He wipes his nose roughly. He goes back to work, quietly dying.