At first, I worried he was waiting for someone. After a week, I realized he wasn’t. He’d sit there with his hands folded, watching the street outside like it was a television channel he couldn’t quite change. Sometimes he’d read the same newspaper for days, turning pages slowly, carefully, as if they might tear from impatience.
By the second month, people started complaining.
“He’s taking up a booth.”
“Is he going to order anything else?”
“Some of us are waiting.”
I’d smile, apologize, and tell them I’d handle it. But I never did. Because every time I walked past him, he’d look up and say, “Thank you for letting me sit,” like he was asking permission just to exist.
So I let him stay.
After a while, I started bringing him extra bread. I’d drop it off like it was an accident. “They gave us too much this morning,” I’d say. He always looked surprised, then grateful, like kindness was something he hadn’t budgeted for.
Then came the soup. Sometimes dessert—only on slow afternoons, when no one was watching.
He never asked. Never expected. He’d just nod and say, “That’s very kind of you,” and eat slowly, savoring every bite like it might be the last warm thing he’d have that day.
We didn’t talk much. Not real conversations. Mostly little exchanges.
“Cold today.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Good soup.”
“I’m glad.”
But I started noticing he talked to me more than anyone else. When I refilled his coffee, he’d tell me small things. That he used to fix watches. That his wife loved lemon pie. That mornings were the hardest part of the day.
One day, he said, “This place helps me remember how to sit with people.”
I didn’t know what that meant then. I think I do now.
Then one Monday, he didn’t come.
I noticed at 8:17.
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