He is crying

A cold winter evening. You are walking home from work and see a man walking down the alley toward you.

He is huddled in a fur coat that has no belt, allowing him to walk without having to hold it up with his hands. Walking slowly, he looks down at his feet, grimacing from the cold, and clutching the edges of the fur coat, he buries his cheeks into the fur collar attached to the garment.

He has nothing with him, as if he had rushed off somewhere in a hurry. You stand there, watching him, and as he draws closer, you notice tears in his eyes. Apparently, his evening hasn't gone very well—in fact, it's been quite bad.

You keep staring at him, not noticing how quickly the distance between you is closing. After a few minutes of gazing, he crashes right into you. You both recoil from the impact and fall. His shocked face looks up at you, and you look back at him, equally stunned.

"I'm sorry, I wasn't looking where I was going."

He said softly, picking himself up from the sidewalk.