depressing:

The One-Armed Man, a veteran of one of America's more recent wars, came in again the other day.  He is always brusque and in a sort of pitying reverence we are short with him, too.  Maybe his disposition was shaped in Vietnam.  Maybe he was born a snake.  Either way, there is a something really sorry about him--a sort of sogginess in the air--and it has nothing to do with the way the empty right sleeve of his flannel dangles unceremoniously.  That afternoon I saw him with his cart full of hardware stopped in front of a flower display.  He picked one up and regarded it.  My heart swelled just a little bit.  Could there be some small beauty left for him?  The One-Armed Man, hardened husk of a human being, is not immune to flowers.  Oh, but then he set the annuals back down on the shelf, mouth set in a straight line.