cut scene

[m-danson.livejournal.com]

He sat at the corner table. Neglected by the waitress who didn't even seem to notice his presence. Neither handsome nor ugly he looked far younger than his sixty-two years. He poked at his breakfast and idly wondered how anybody could eat deep fried pork fat. The man was not bored. The man was never bored. Even the endless hours he spent in cafes, bars and on roof tops observing people as they went through the motions of their daily lives did not bore him. Mostly he meditated. Still and silent he watched. He missed nothing. His memory was perfect and his recall extraodinary.

He had been sitting here since long before what might have been dawn in a brighter place. He wore no watch. He didn't need one to tell him that it was time for him to report in. His call would be expected. Casually he stood and pulled out his wallet. Exactly the right amount of money plus a modest tip was dropped onto the table top by a tattoo marked hand. The mark of a stylized flame growing out of three concentric circles. Simple. Elegant.

By the time the young waitress was done busing the table he had never been there.