The Silhouette in the Coffee Shop

PROMPT: Is there a stranger you encounter daily? Who is he/she?

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Perched behind the entryway glass, chair propped against the wall, he sits there every single day. Leg bent at the knee, inner edge of his foot balanced on the top of his thigh, newspaper held in out-stretched arms, while a mug of coffee rests on the table beside him. Occasionally, the cup interests his fingers enough to warrant a tip to his lips. More often, it just stays there, a statue fixed in marble.

His silhouette catches my eye the moment I reach the last row of pigment diagonally streaking the parking lot asphalt. Even though I see him, I never look—at least not then. I purposely direct my gaze to the front doors, catching him only out of my periphery. Without looking though, I always notice him peering out the window.

When I reach the second entryway door, I question a turn to my left and wonder if I should meet his greeting with an acknowledgment, or continue to the counter and order my coffee. The neighborhood is a friendly one, after all. And this guy seems to survey each person who skirts through the door; he never directs his attention solely at me. When I do turn, I find his smile to be warm and friendly, not creepy and suggestive. And he has never once risen from his seat to make an unwelcome advance. He just sits there—a body bent on observing, sipping and greeting the bleary-eyed morning-goers who regularly seek solace in a cup of caffeine.

As I wait for my coffee, I always pass the time by reflecting on my turn—or lack thereof—wondering whether or not my culturally conditioned gut is unfairly questioning his intentions. Should ask him about his day or attempt to discuss a story peering from the front page of his newspaper? He could be lonely, after all, sitting in the coffee shop because he has nowhere else to be. Or he could be a recent retiree seeking pleasure in a morning routine. Or a writer seeking inspiration for his characters. I’m sure one of those possibilities is a bit closer to the truth than the suspicions coloring my imagination; nevertheless, every day the suspicions prevent me from asking.

When I open my situation to the broader context, it leads me to wonder how many experiences we miss trying to be safe, and on the other end of the spectrum, how many tragic moments could have been prevented if someone just took the care to listen to his gut. Mostly though, I wonder how we can strip out the factor of luck, and actually identify how to discern the difference.