Cloak and Dagger

His days are marked by the length of his beard. It hangs four inches below his chin and it is full and bushy. I watch him come into the coffee shop and order a triple chocolate mocha latte, after which, he takes a seat at a table near the window.

I take note of his army jacket, pants, and shoes, and I guess that he is ex-military. It seems the most likely answer, given his appearance. Some veterans who have seen combat suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder and are living on the street. However, he managed to have enough money to buy a coffee. How did he acquire a taste for such a frou-frou drink?

He looks world-weary to me, as though he has seen and done things about which he does not want to talk. I wonder how many men he has killed in combat and the ways in which he killed them. Was he drafted or did he enlist? Was he a prisoner of war?

I watch him, unimpeded, from across the aisle. I want to ask if he has stayed in touch with family members since leaving active duty. Does he suffer from night terrors or jump at the slightest sound? Has he been thanked for his service, or has he been spat on upon his return?

The barista calls out his finished order, and he returns to the counter to pick up his drink. She asks about his appearance, and I hear him say, “Today’s the day.”

“The day for what?” I wonder. Did he find a lost love? Is he reconnecting with family members? Is he counseling veterans on ways to get help for their troubles?

He takes the drink from the barista before heading out of the door of the coffee shop. He stands outside for a bit, sipping the drink before heading down the sidewalk. I crane my neck to watch him until I can no longer see him through the window. I settle back into my chair at the table and resume reading the book I had brought in with me earlier. I am enjoying the rare day off from work.

***

The next day, I am three-quarters of the way finished reading my murder mystery, when the coffee shop door opens and a good-looking man enters. He is the clean-shaven buppie-type, dressed to the nines in an expensive suit purchased to impress others. I am not attracted to this sort of man. I am more interested in the rugged type - the kind who can build you a house with his bare hands and fix your car when it is broken.

I continue reading my book. I am nearing the part where the detective figures out who killed the tourist when I hear a conversation. The barista says “congrats” to the man. I assume he has accomplished something buppie-like, like garnering a promotion at work, inheriting money from an aunt, or adopting stray puppies, so I continue to read my book.

He orders a triple chocolate mocha latte, the same drink the veteran had ordered yesterday. I note the contrast in the two. The one who stands before me now looks like he has had everything handed to him on a silver platter, whereas the veteran did not. “The veteran wouldn’t look at him twice,” I think to myself.

He waits at the counter while the barista prepares his drink. It is a slow time in the coffee shop, just after two o’clock, so the lunch rush is over. She hands him his latte and he takes a seat at the table near the window. I glance at him out of the corner of my eye before doing some additional reading.

She approaches his table and they talk for a while. He finishes his drink and then gives the barista a smile before heading toward the coffee shop door. She waves goodbye to him and says, “I like the new look. Great job on finishing your first novel.”

I look up at him, and it suddenly clicks into place. “He’s the veteran from yesterday and he’s a writer,” I think to myself. I then settle down further in my seat so I can finally learn who killed the tourist with a knife.