Out of the corner of my eye I see him. Like clockwork, he sips his drink, twice, every five seconds. Reading a magazine that only confirms my guess behind his occupation, he sits in suited glory. He eats his lunch with a studied ease and from where I sit I can almost feel the tension and stress from him. He glances to his watch, shakes his cup, and looks outside.
A crunch from the hastily eaten chips notifies me that he is done pondering. He thumbs faster through his magazine as I realize his lunch time must be nearly done. I watch him and wonder if he even suspects I am writing about him. If he did, would he be upset or would he be grateful to have been captured immortally in a forgotten medium?
Sneaking a stealthy glance to his table reveals an orderly aspect that I should have guessed, but somehow missed. Napkins, papers, receipt, drink, plate, all stand within an order of convenience. It impresses me, as a fan of order myself. I glance at my own disorganized table and smile. One for you, sir, one for you.
Does he know that I admire him even though I have never said a word to him? How would he accept the admiration of someone who has never made eye contact let alone speak to him? Magazine closes and trash begins to collect in an orderly fashion. He rises and leaves, leaving me with only more admiration. Marking his passing, a stack of clean, unused napkins sit. A gentleman to the end.
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