He Circles

He circles the cafe table, small and round, that holds twin coffee cups, his and someone else’s, a someone who has not yet arrived but whose place is being marked out by the tread of his boots and by the tapping of his hand on the table as he circles it — step, tap, tap, tap — step, tap, tap, tap — step, tap, tap, tap — only occasionally interrupting himself to lift his ballcap higher on his head and to look through the hope of the plate glass window.

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