He looks about 30 years old, he thought, as he picked at his now-cold toast and sipped at his coffee. But she looks younger, maybe 25 or 26. I wonder if they live in the area. He glanced over across the coffee shop and noticed it was getting busy. Shit. He hated when it started to get noisy and crowded. I’ll give myself another ten minutes, and then I’m going home. He looked back out the window, and noticed that the couple had gone, replaced now by the emptiness of the autumn air. Defeated, he turned his attention back to the interior of the slightly drafty restaurant and tried to gauge with some actuality how crowded the place had become. Being close to nine o’clock, it was hard to tell, since most of the people who came in at this time in the morning took their orders to go. He sat there for a moment, amused at the sight of the line of people moving in a slightly-comatose, half-asleep fashion. Finding that the place was in no danger of being over-occupied, he turned his attention back to the window. Now there stood a family of three, a man and wife along with their young daughter. Suddenly a memory fluttered down into his head. It was nothing he could put his finger on; more a collection of images and feelings than anything else. He knew it had something to do with his past, but he elected not to allow it to enter his mind. Whether it was because he couldn’t remember the details or because he didn’t want to remember, he didn’t know, nor did he want to.
The young man outside the window had his arm around his wife, and his daughter held onto his other hand. He looked away from the couple and down at his wrinkled fingers, which were incessantly examining the handle of the coffee cup. He realized that his old hands had never held a child’s, and the enormity of that statement both scared and fascinated him. They were laughing, all three of them, and he couldn’t stand it a moment longer. He packed up his things and tried to get the waitress’ attention. She was the kind of waitress that almost obsessively asks you, repeatedly, if you need anything else. It was ironic that when he really wanted to go, she had become so busy that she couldn’t fulfill his request.
He looked back out the window. He figured that if he was going to punish himself, he might as well get it over with. That was me 50 years ago, he thought, as he looked at the couple again. He looked helplessly at the stream of people coming into the restaurant, and saw no end in sight. Fuck it. He looked back outside, and marveled at how much the young man resembled himself, all those years ago. The woman even resembled his wife. It was as if someone had planned and orchestrated this situation in order to make him face things he was determined not to face. It was impossible, of course, but he was paranoid by nature.
That same memory flooded into his head again, and instead of trying to force it out, he gave in. It was a time of happiness. The beach. The sand. The night. It was one of those experiences you struggle to remember at times, and struggle to forget at others. He probably thanked God for that moment 50 years ago, but he’d do anything to forget it now.
God. That was a funny word. It used to mean something to him years ago. It represented humanity and hope, wonderment and beauty. That was back when things made sense. Do you remember when things used to make sense? He posed the question to the invisible person who would understand. But none of those people were around anymore. Anyone who might have known his name had died years ago. He watched the traffic light cycle from green to red, and back again, and watched the family of three walk across the street. Off to their life, he thought.
The waitress returned and gave the old man his check. He had finally received his invitation to leave, but still he sat, watching the leaves blow amongst the now-dead trees, wandering into the gutters and alleys and onto the windshields of cars. He turned his attention back inside the restaurant, where a sudden click click click sound was grabbing his attention away from everything else. His eyes darted around the room as he searched for the source of the unrelenting noise. Just as he was growing more and more impatient, he spotted, out of the corner of his eye, a little girl outside. She was repeatedly kicking a lamp post, much to the dismay of her irritated mother. In that moment, for whatever reason, she made eye contact with him. She paused for a moment, and then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, she waved to him. The man smiled and waved back, almost on impulse. Then, the light changed, and they left. He had to get out of here.
He quickly picked up his belongings, and hurried out the door. There he stood, a mere six blocks from his apartment. I’ll be forever grateful, he thought, if I can just get back home without incident. He quickly walked the sidewalks, even stepping into the gutter if someone stepped too close. He peered down at the cracked pavement, examining the discarded band-aids and random plastic, picturing the warm, inviting home that awaited him. Four more blocks. He spotted a young man up ahead of him. He looked lost. Just as this person opened his mouth to ask directions, he let out a loud cough, and kept on going. He felt guilty for a moment, then he turned back, and spotted the man talking to someone else. That made him feel a bit better. He turned the corner and saw his front door.
