Julian sat at the counter like some forgotten relic—part monk, part outlaw—cradling a mug of black coffee as if it held the last truth left in the world. No cell phone in sight. In fact, he’d left it outside on the bike, where it wouldn’t be distracted by humans and could just be in the moment.
Biscuits and gravy, with a side of chorizo—that was the morning sacrament. Everything was better with chorizo. Julian didn’t trust people who disagreed with that.
Around him, the other patrons formed a quiet, glass-eyed congregation, bowed heads lit by the glow of tiny screens. No one spoke. One man, hunched over in a ballcap like a low-level wizard mid-scroll, never once looked up. He might’ve been watching cat videos or orchestrating a cryptocurrency coup—no way to tell. Another sat motionless, tapping one-handed as he ate blind, never glancing at the plate he was forking. Honestly, that level of coordination deserved applause.
The waitress—efficient and unbothered—moved like a caffeinated ballet dancer. She poured a row of Bloody Marys in preparation for lunch, her phone bulging from her back pocket like a digital tumor. He asked what she was mixing, made some quip about the coming storm of brunchers ordering those tomato-bombs like greyhounds at a rabbit track.
She chuckled, and for a brief moment, human connection sparked across the stainless steel no-man’s-land of the counter.
And that’s when it hit him. No phone. Talking to people. Making eye contact. Laughing. He looked around. He was the only one doing it. The only one being here.
He grinned to himself.
To everyone else, he probably looked like a serial killer. Or worse—someone who wanted to talk.
What a weirdo.
