"Wait"

He’s waiting on you. He’s found himself ensconced between the curve of the door wall and the adjacent window flooded with the rare autumn sun.
 

While he stays still he’s leaning back into the kitsch plywood chair, looking at everything through what seem like glass—some pair of mesmerizing charcoal eyes.

He’s not there for charm, laughter, bewilderment—he’s got all that. His face isn’t too handsome, but neither is he waiting on her, too. It’s in his deep voice, his willingness to give up the plywood and small square table for the elderly couple walling in. Nor hunger nor drink is what he awaits, taking up and setting down that iced coffee half-full knowingly.

He’s waiting for you. You too, are also the young maiden, short hair and luscious pin-up red lips buzzing behind the counter making her way through the espresso steam. She’s his sweetheart. He’s sitting close to see her and smiles when she needs one during her shift. And she’s waiting for the long hand to hit the 12 in two hours. She’ll be off—he will stay all that while.

He’s waiting on the colors of cars passing through. On that sleek man with the phone to hastily cross the street. For the plaid-clad bearded little hipster to lock in his tattered bicycle. For the two ladies netted in pastel tattoos to begin their duo on their new guitars. For the 5 to pick up the grocery store workers from the stop that’s fading in the smell of piss.

He waits for clouds to overcome sun. On the next Belle and Sebastian tune to play overhead like a dream. For the warming oatmeal-cranberry scones to finish baking in the back kitchen—a most sensuous and heavy scent with hints of cinnamon at intervals. For the newspapers scattered in the opposite corner to be swept up into compost. On the vain woman in the bathroom touching up those artificial eyes as the simple young dad and melodious little girl patiently wait for her to finish. On the owner behind him taking it easy with the strong foamy macchiato while his dog sits hopelessly in the doorway for him.

Good old San Francisco. He waits for nothing.