He sat at the table, writing. People walked in and out of the restaurant, never noticing him.

There were people of all sorts. Those who announced their arrivals with their lipsticks and those who hid theirs behind dark forests of beard. Those who ran out of things to say after an animated Hi, how're you, long time. Those who eavesdropped on their neighbours with an air of quiet superiority. Those who never wiped their mouths and those who never opened them. Those who tempted the waiters to spit into their food. Those who met once a year to remember the old days over Old Monk. Those who always asked for more tables and chairs. Those who came in for lunch everyday, inspite of the shitty cold food and the slow service. Those who'd spent all their lives waiting at tables older than themselves. Those who were always the last ones to arrive and the first ones to leave. Those who felt comforted by the peculiar smell of the faded tablecloths. Those who went dutch over a cup of coffee. Those who tried hard to score with the women and those who'd given up years ago. Those who stumbled out to puke on the road at the same spot, every Saturday. Those who laughed mirthlessly and those who held back their tears. Those who found a few hours of peace in the white noise of the room. Those who had a good time and those who pretended to.

He noticed that all of them walked into the restaurant, always looking for something – free tables, friends, infidelity, bathrooms, madness, inspiration, conversation, stability, ashtrays, nirvana.

He had walked in looking for a story and never left.