Waiting

The bell tower across the river chimed ten when he heard the first shout, and by that time he had already finished his first cup of coffee and was starting a second. Three couples had occupied the table next to him (more than one conversation had included tears) but still he sat there, just waiting. The clouds were gone by then, and though the street was still wet, the sun smiled over head, pleased by its reflection in the practically unmoving water. He didn’t see this; he never saw the sun anymore.

He didn’t hear another shout until his third cup of coffee, which he had only gotten because the waitress had a gap in her front teeth. He was awake now. The cup just sat on the table in front of him, waiting to be drunk, just as the rest of the street waited for something to happen. It was too quiet, he decided. Everything was too quiet.

The clock chimed eleven, a bird chirped, a dog barked, but still it was too quiet. He coughed, but the echo from across the river was empty, almost silent. The world was reluctant to cough back. Margo would come, he eventually told himself. She would be there. The river didn’t want to cough back.

The shouting suddenly became intense, furious, and instead of the occasional cry he heard continued commotion. A mangy dog ran past, disturbing the still water as he kicked a few dead leaves into the river. Two men rushed after him, shouting in unison just as they wore matching black suits.

Margo wasn’t coming. With a sigh he stood up and put his tattered hat on his head, leaving his coffee on the table. There it waited. It was too quiet.