the chips are down

Apart from the noise, there is silence. Forty five minutes he sits there, never taking a sip from his coffee which is probably long since finished; from where I sit I cannot tell. His legs are crossed, and he holds his glasses in his hand. Waiting? Maybe. He’s married, a ring on each third finger tells me so, and I don’t have to worry about telling left from right. He is perhaps 40 years old, black skin, wearing a black coat, well jacket really, with a grey stripe down the sleeves, black trousers and scuffed white trainers. On the seat to his left he has a cheap carrier bag with a tube of ready salted Pringles inside. He taps his finger on the table in no particular rhythm. A man asks if he can join him, our guy nods and says yes. Neither of them attempt to strike up a conversation. Second man pulls out a book. First man continues to stare into space. A smile plays over his lips, wistful and weak. Revisiting a memory perhaps, a day spent with a loved one, playing with his son that morning. But there is also a frown forming on his brow, some tension appearing, clouding his complexion. He shakes his head. Is he trying to remember or forget? He continues to stare. Is he watching the door? Waiting for someone to come in? Or just counting down the time until he can leave. The more I watch, the more attached I become and decide it’s only right he has a name. I settle on the name Samson and let my mind drift. He shuffles his feet. He has done this a few times now, it is the only movement he makes. He carefully repositions each foot, moving first the left foot, then the right, then the left again. There is a carefully measured approach to this, and the gesture seems to speak of his intense thoughtfulness. A thought occurs to me, and I begin to write it down in my notepad. I pen two sentences and by the time I look up he has gone. The Pringles have gone with him. He has vanished, like an elephant, and I shall never see him again.