I saw him, he was dropping some solution into his eyes, that's what had caught my attention, but then my gaze sharpened as I picked up on his shape, his contours, his being. His face was somehow mis-shapen, undefinable, more neck than face. Big ears. He will be lucky I thought, with those earlobes – money will come to him. I could see his feet were not placed on the floor, they dangled above, like a child waiting on a school bench. His airborne feet gave a feeling of not totally belonging, of not being taken as an equal at that table with 'the others', the ones smoking cigarettes and poised confidently with all their length. He was bulky – to the point of morbid weight, as they call it in clinics and chat shows. Seeing his legs conjured the phrase from Bukowski's lips, of Toulouse Latrec and his 'little legs'. One of the lengthier ones, the cigarette smokers, the sophisticateds – sat legs crossed, flicking her ash before it was created. Seemed that they were lovers. Her with her chiffon scarf and bistro style ways, him with his dwarfism. The bottle of wine sat between – the compass of the night.