The Last Table by the Window

The diner on Fifth Street was nothing special. The paint on the sign was peeling. The coffee was average. The chairs squeaked when you sat down. But every night at exactly seven o'clock, an old man walked in and sat at the same table by the window.

Nobody knew his name. The regulars called him "The Coat Man" because he wore the same long gray coat, summer or winter. He always ordered the same thing — a bowl of vegetable soup and a cup of black coffee. He never asked for anything else. He never said much either.

Maya had worked at the diner for almost a year. She was twenty-four, tired most of the time, and saving money for community college. Her shifts ran from five in the evening until midnight, and her feet always ached by the end of the night. But she liked her job well enough. The regulars felt like family, even the strange ones.

Especially the strange ones.

The first time Maya served the old man, she noticed his hands shook a little when he held the coffee cup. She noticed his shoes were worn through at the sides. She noticed he counted his coins twice before paying, as if to be sure he had enough.

"Keep the change," he told her that first night, sliding across two extra quarters.

"Sir, that's not much of a tip," Maya laughed gently.

"It's what I have," he said, and looked out the window.