You approached the ginger who was sat at the bar. He was attractive, wearing a suit similar to you. He looked like you. Not in his features, no; they were much more bright than yours, you'd never had much colour in your face. It was in his expression, in his mannerisms. In the way he was slumped over the bar, a glass of wine in his slender fingers.

He didn't look happy.

He didn't look satisfied.