He comes in every morning and orders a cup of black coffee. He’ll talk to me about how his day had been and who had died recently at the nursing home. Sometimes he’d even talked about his wife, but that was a rare occurrence. Whenever we started talking about the weather we both knew it was time for him to go, and I’d watch him shuffle out of the diner. As soon as he left I’d pour out his untouched cup of coffee and get back to work.
submitted at 4:16am
11 May 2010