Nikki Yeager

Sitting in a coffee shop I look across from me at a man no younger than a hundred, no faster than a sloth. He has a military hat on and white socks yanked up to his knees. Camouflaged shorts and big, bug eyed glasses, holding a distant expression and saggy skin. 

But it's not the outfit that keeps me staring. He sits alone at a table for two, his chair turned outwards, legs splayed before him and dated sales papers resting calmly on his lap - of course he's not reading the news print. That'd be far too ordinary for a man so comfortably out of place.

Nothing but staring into the distance, glancing at his hands, staring back into the distance. Over and over he stares and glances, stares and glances. 

And on his table sit two cups, one half full and one entirely empty. Both cups sitting on the opposite side of the table as if waiting for a friend. The ghost friend, whose chair remains pulled out and welcoming. Ready for a warm body to take it. 

And next to the cup sits the man's two companions, also waiting patiently for an old friend or obligated family member to take their place at the table. One of the two companions holds a gun before him, aimed tirelessly at the door. A little plastic police officer no more than 10 inches high and ready to frighten off intruders. A man in waiting, never moving. A plastic figurine protecting the table ... and the figurine's accomplice. 

A little stuffed dog, disproportianate to the officer. Far smaller than a real dog but towering over the model cop. Just a dog and his owner, perched infinitely on the table top. Literally plastic. 

I take another look at the man and he looks again at his hands. Gazes at the door. His companions never move and his chair remains empty for as long as time chooses, they remain.