The man at the Windsor Inn

I have to tell you about a man I met while I was in D.C. He’s the owner and/or manager of the Windsor Inn, a renovated house, small and old but accommodating. No elevator. Armida stayed there.
The man has an eastern European accent, which makes him instantly charming, of course. His hair is graying and thinning. It looks like a self-cut job with that Einstein every-which-way look. That particular evening, he wore a black and white plaid shirt with a burlap tie and a corduroy jacket. You know, the kind with the patched elbows. He always held his glasses, which dove and flew through the air, occasionally subject to a good sucking while he thought. He sensed when his boarders needed something and jumped up to help with that smile that at least looks genuinely pleased that we needed him. You can’t really tell where he is looking because his eyes go different directions, but eventually his smile hides that.
This man looks like the sort of man with whom you want to be friends. He looks as if he has hidden tales, stories that twinkle in his eyes, and it’s your job to prod him along, just enough to get the once upon a time.
I tell you about this man because I want to go back and meet him again. I lost, you see, because I only spent the two minutes with him, asking about how to get to the White House. Oh, that I had spent more time, that I had gotten the once upon a time.
I tell you about this man because he just might show up in my next book. Not my current WIP, but my next book. The ideas are simmering, and this man is jumping up, pleased to help.