Every morning, the man comes into the diner. He is always polite. He orders the same thing: coffee and scrambled eggs. He stresses the “ee” in “coffee,” hisses the “s” in “eggs.”
He takes the same seat, with a view out into the garden. He stares out of it. It is impossible to tell what he is thinking. If he is thinking.
He pours salt in coffee. Sugar on his eggs. He eats slowly, mechanically, deliberately, with a smile on his face.
Every morning, he does this.
But at least he tips well.
Word Count: 93
This is for Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for running the challenge and providing the photo prompt!