ALONE
Word Count: 335
The man sitting alone at the table is clearly uncomfortable. He looks around, takes a sip of his coffee, puts the cup down, realigns the spoon with the saucer, picks up the cup, looks around.
He is beyond middle-aged, around sixty, just the brush of grey in his dark hair. His hair is about two weeks past needing a haircut. No one to nag him to go get it cut. His long-sleeved blue shirt is crisp, even though it is a touch of September in June. His pants are thin-wale corduroy, bound to add to his discomfort. He probably doesn’t know where she’d kept the out of season clothes and is living months past her on his own.
His children, if he has had them, all live out of town. Likely past college with wives and jobs in the cities. They call now and then; his daughter calls every Sunday before noon. He tells her he’s doing all right.
He has no place to be and he’s just starting to get out of the house more. He does go to the usual places they’d go together, the grocery store, the bank, the diner for dinner one night a week. But not on Fridays, not any more. It’s too hard to see the same people all there except her. He goes on Thursdays and thinks to himself that she would have liked the meatloaf that is the day’s special.
And this is the first time he’s gone there for breakfast, though all he would order was coffee and sound. He’d look up at every burst of laughter, every greeting across booths, every table cleaned with a clinking of dishes and cups. He raises his coffee to within inches of his lips, holds it in both hands, looks around.
A woman brushes by him, nudges his back with her hip. She apologizes, though he isn’t damaged, at least not by this. He nods, says he’s fine, looks up and without realizing he’s doing it, smiles.
