white balance

While I waited for my order, I watched him out of the corner of my eye. His gaze was very attentive to his newspaper, as he turned the pages with both hands, like someone looking for something specific. The paper rustled gently, almost softly, but making a slight sound. He paused. He folded the newspaper exactly in half, checking that the corners matched, and ran his thumb over it.

The meticulousness of his movements absorbed me. It didn’t catch my attention in an eccentric way. It felt familiar. He turned his head in my direction. Our eyes met for a second.

— “I’ll leave your coffee here, sorry for the delay.”

— “Don’t worry, thanks.”

I placed the cup between my notebook and that little box with sugar packets that I never use. You have to know yourself and take precautions. I already have this dark head to stain pages. I went back to my activity.

He put his hand into his coat and pulled out a metal mechanical pencil. From a distance, I couldn’t see clearly, but I assumed it was that because he pressed the back several times and then looked at the tip against the light. Without putting it down on the table, he grabbed the cup. He took a short sip. He put it back in its place and resumed his task.

He was reading something on the right side. At the same time, he was underlining and writing notes. He was very focused on whatever he was doing. The sequence lasted a few minutes. Suddenly, he let go of the mechanical pencil and placed his palm on the page. He stared at the window, motionless.

What goes through one’s mind when kidnapped by thoughts?

He returned to his table but was totally detached from his previous sequence. He separated the page he was analyzing and folded it until it was the size of a pocketbook. He slipped it through the clip of the mechanical pencil and put both items back in his coat. He stood up.

I understood he was a regular customer because he paid at the counter with exact change. The waitress was not surprised. Before leaving, he turned his gaze towards my table again, as if bidding farewell out of courtesy.

The bar was empty, and I stayed looking at his table, still uncleared, thinking about that familiarity I felt.

I like older people. They understand sadness, or at least they have learned to live with it. Sadness as a driver of change and as a facilitator of expression.