He always sat at the corner table
and ate his usual.
Calm in the morning chaos.
Cappuccino arriving at 10.
Balanced between laptop, phone and book.
That leather notebook, worn and greying black, shiny and edges bare.
Always scribbling within those pages.
Could it really be the same one?
It seemed that way.
Broken spine, unravelling seams, endless pages, curling corners.
A wedge of notes. Always writing.
Disordered document designing dark destinies,
Or maybe at most
Muddled mutterings of man men.
Scribble, scribble. Scribble, scribble!
Laptop on and open, but never fingers on keyboard.
When he answered his calls,
it was with curt yes or no.
Nothing more.
Never ringing between 12:30 and 1.
They knew not to, it's lunch.
House pasta of the day.
Never asked what it was.
The plate placed upon red and white gingham cloth.
Checking the notebook to one side.
Crossing the phone to the other
As a thimble-sized glass of something red joins the game.
He ate quickly, always writing his notes.
Cleared away,
The afternoon continued just as the morn.
Tiramisu appeared at 2,
quickly followed by espresso.
Then at 5, a brandy. Maybe.
Well, always a goblet of some such red,
As he closed his untouched laptop
And the worn-out notebook.
Packed up, paid.
Out the door without a word.
Everyday the same.
He never ordered or complained
They knew what he wanted.
That's how it remained.
Tomorrow and all tomorrow's again and again.
A mystery in the mundane.
