Charlie liked routine. Liked it even more when he actually got to follow it to the letter, as he did now with a pair of sunglasses on his nose and his key ring circling ‘round his index finger. He was the first to enter the small coffee shop, first to walk up to the counter and smile as he asked for the usual, thanks, good morning to you, too, and was the first to find a place to sit. It was a good table by the huge window close to the entrance, one that had him looking over the sidewalk and the comings and goings-- more cars. More people. More congestion, more lives, more things and happenings and everything.
So the coffee shop filled up, as it did. Charlie sat alone with his book and his latte (extra milk) and his bagel, but in no more than fifteen minutes there were people in just about every other table there. Typically he didn’t care about that. Typically he didn’t care about much in general.
But coincidence-- the damn bastard, the unbelievable stupid son of a bitch-- had him lifting his head at the precise moment necessary to meet the gaze of some poor hapless soul with drink or food or whatever it was, and
absolutely nowhere to sit.
Charlie paused. Charlie stayed quiet. Charlie spared a glance at the empty chair across the one he sat and the empty space on the table in front of it. Politeness dictated he offer the seat; it wasn’t like he was staying long, anyway. It wasn’t like he would have to spend any extended period of time talking to someone before he left. But sharing a table wasn’t routine. Sharing table was against his best interests.
...still, the cafe looked like it’d continue to be full for a while. And even though it took three seconds of silence for him to finally start talking, Charlie eventually asked, “Hey, you want to sit down?”
He even smiled when he did it.