I first saw him sitting on the courthouse steps, contemplating the sun dappling through the green leaves of summer.
It was a hot dry day typical of New Mexico. He was wearing khaki pants and an old plaid shirt. Worn brogues hung heavily on his tired feet. His hair, log, stringy and grey was pulled back into a halfhearted ponytail. Pale grey eyes swam in a sea of wrinkles.
He looked longingly across the street at the ice-cold lemonade I held at the table. I turned my head, looking for the waitress to order one for him when he disappeared.
I think I have met one of the ghosts of Corrales.