Another Stranger

The soft chair encapsulated our hero's geometric shape to a "T". Quiet, overplayed songs resonated under the threshold of the coffee shop patrons as I sat reading Camus.

He - our hero - wore his dark hair short with every portion in its desired place and rectangular, dark-rimmed glasses, the perfect accent added to his rigidly angled features.

The book he sat reading was one I had never heard of. It was worn around its grey, cloth-bound edges. Our hero's intent, expressionless gaze never escaped its pages. And as is obvious from my description, Camus wasn't enough to hold my attention - at least, not how our hero's was held.

I studied him for some time - from his motionless black shoes to his set jaw. That is, until another creature became the object of my interest.

This loosely dressed, long-haired male swaggered through the glass doors and took a seat three chairs to the left of our hero. I only had to move my eyes above my book to view both figures.

The sloppy one tossed a bare foot over the arm of his leather chair and pulled a paperback out of his cloth sling-bag.

His eyes passed through every possible angle in the room and his fidgety body shifted every several moments until finally, the book he had chosen grabbed his bright stare. He let out a chuckle. Several of the urban regulars at the front bar looked over their shoulders but continued their conversations - our defiant hero did not budge.

The long-hair started to read his book aloud and I began to hate him: others were obviously annoyed. No-one spoke anything to the stranger as he continued reading his ridiculous book - "the cushion of energy and the sense of smell...colored forearms and feelings of absence..." He continued, growing louder.

Despite the incessant rambling of the stranger, the entire shop had turned snowy quiet.

In an instant everything changed. Our hero, without moving his eyes from his pages calculatedly moved his left hand into his black, leather briefcase and removed it grasping a small, black gun.

He swept the piece through the air where his line of sight met it - aimed confidently at the stranger's temple.

Our hero squeezed the trigger with the same intentional concentration he had given his book.

The stranger's voice was quieted and the only sources of noise present in the small cafe were the involuntary twitching of the stranger's legs on the stained carpet floor and the latch of the door, where our hero had made his exit.

Fade into applause.