Once upon a time he had known how to deal with this situation. So when he entered into it, it was with an illusion of control, an illusion that he had meticulously maintained up until this breaking point, this shattering of the protective layer of ice-cold emotion that he wore underneath his charming southern irony.
And so he sat in the cafe, bleary-eyed and confused. His hand rested unsteadily on a perfect cup of cappucino, complete and undisturbed with eddies of creamy foam meandering through swirls of umber. As his mind strayed from the previous evening and into communion with his coffee, he recognized the emptiness of the moment. A cylinder of ash crumbled from his neglected cigarette onto the table, a pigeon alighted on the opposite chair, and the clock tower chimed half past the hour, marking the passing of the dawn into day.
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