The old man in the corner

He walks into the coffee shop, everyday, a few minutes after I settle in at my usual table. I prefer the table in the middle, right next to the wall, from here I can see all directions. I can see who comes in, takes a paper and opt to sit outside in the front of the café and who walks through the back door to sit at the table under the big tree. I can see him coming in today, took the paper and went straight to his usual spot. It is the corner table. There is sunlight coming through from both sides. I kind of understand why he chose that spot, it must be nice and warm. The waitresses know us as the usual customers, the early rises. We are the same in a way but also different. The waitress brings my cappuccino in that huge mug I love and smiles at me as she places it right in front of me as I thank her. I do not need to order because by now they all knew the drill. As I take out my journal to write, I give him a quick glance. Another waitress takes his usual beverage to him. He just sits there. He doesn't touch his drink. He also doesn't open the paper but he just stares at them silently. I am not sure if he is deciding which one to take first or not at all. His face does not give away anything either. I wonder why that bothers me. I often tell myself that next time I'd bring my sketch book and draw a sketch of the lonely old man, who talks to no one and just sits there. Sometimes I notice that the waitresses takes the cold, untouched beverage and replace it with anther hot one. Strangely enough, I never bring the sketch book, maybe it is better to write about him. I think it will be better remembering him this way should he stops coming. But today, today I am keen to find out who he is and why he just sits there. I asked the waitress who attends to me but she knew nothing about him, just that he comes and sits there in the corner for hours. I love cafés and I find this place so calming. I too enjoy being alone just like him. I am sure others are also wondering about me the same way I wonder about him. We are united by the solitude of our silent world. This is a place we both go to for comfort and companion but also to be alone at the same time. The mesmerizing smell of strong coffee is my favorite scent and the soft coffeeshop jazz is white noise to me. I come here to read and I write here but mostly I come here to watch people. The old man is by far my favorite. I look forward to seeing him everyday, I sit down and wait anxiously for his arrival. I smile when he walks in and go straight to his corner, oblivious of my presence. I am usually the first to leave and I often wonder if he ever does. The old man in the corner.