[ WP ] A man sits in a coffee shop , anxiously awaiting something . The door opens , and in walks ...

He sat in the corner, in the back, pressed up against the vinyl seat in a ragged overcoat and a green knit cap. I ’ d seen him before, every Thursday at 11 a.m. for as long as I ’ d worked at the diner. He would come in and nod his head toward the waitress and head toward the back. If his booth was taken, he ’ d make a clean turn and shuffle his way right back out the door. I guess he knew if his table was taken, whatever he was waiting for wouldn ’ t happen. 
 
 Yes, I said waiting. Every day, when he came in, he ’ d sit down at the booth and unroll the newspaper wrapped under his arm. He ’ d do the crossword, the yellow pencil tapping against his gray beard as he wracked his brain for the answers. He ’ d order coffee in the winter and ice tea in the summer, and he was always pleasant enough. 
 
 At 11, the clock in the iron clock tower in the park across the street would start to chime, and the old man would sit up straight. He ’ d study the scene outside, wringing his hands and anxiously waiting. He ’ d check his watch, and if 11:15 came and went, he ’ d re-roll the paper, leave his money on the table, and head out the door, nodding his head toward the staff again as he left. It was always the same, every Thursday… until the day it wasn ’ t. 
 
 It was slow that morning in September, and the bitter wind drove the customers to their homes and dried leaves through the streets. Only two tables were occupied when the man opened the door, the wind clawing its way through my thin uniform and stinging my skin. The man pulled the door closed quickly, rubbed his hands together and nodded my way. I nodded back, grabbed a cup of coffee and followed. 
 
 “ Good morning, Joe, ” I said, the cup clicking against the table top. “ What would you like today? ” 
 
 The old man wrapped his hands around the warm porcelain and scrunched his wrinkled face. 
 
 “ Hash browns and eggs with a side of sausage. I need to warm up a bit today. ” 
 
 “ That wind is killer, ” I said. “ I ’ ll have that right up. ” 
 
 He nodded and unrolled the newspaper, the same as any other day. 
 When he finished his plate, he pushed it back on the table and continued sipping coffee and working on the puzzle. At 11 a.m., he stiffened and looked out the window onto the deserted street. At 11:06, he jumped to his feet, sloshing coffee all over the table top. 
 I rushed around the counter. His eyes were wild, and he couldn ’ t stay still. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His body was shaking with anticipation. 
 
 “ Is everything OK, Joe? ” I asked, reaching out to put my hand on his shoulder. He brushed it off and took two steps toward the door. It flew open with a bang, bringing with it the full force of the wind. Dishes clattered on their shelves, and leaves and paper bombarded my fresh-swept floor. 
 A man stood in the doorway, oblivious to the destruction. The bottom of his black trench coat waved violently in the wind, but he stood tall, one hand on his hip, the other pointing a strange weapon directly at Joe. 
 
 “ Wh— “ I started to say, but Joe shushed me with one hand, his other pointing a weapon back at the man in black. 
 
 “ I ’ ve been waiting for you a long time, ” Joe said, in a voice more dangerous than I ’ d ever heard him use. 
 
 “ I know. ” 
 
 Both weapons fired at once, and I dropped below the counter, glass showing down upon my back. I crouched, my arms around my head as my diner erupted around me. A shard from a shattered sundae cup sliced into my wrist, but I stayed, locked in position. Explosions, cracking and chaos echoed through the tin-plated walls, and, for the first time in five years, I prayed. 
 
 The noise died, and I heard the familiar click of the door on its hinges. The wind died. Footsteps crunched through the debris. They were growing closer. I huddled down, pressing my knees as close to the floor as possible. Blood from the cut on my wrist dripped onto the tile floor. 
 *Please, God. I ’ m not ready to die. * 
 
 Something soft pressed against the cut, and I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the blow or the shot to end it all. The grip around my wrist tugged, pulling me to my feet, and I turned, holding my breath. I looked straight into Joe ’ s familiar green eyes, and I started to cry. My body went limp, and I would have crumpled to the floor if Joe hadn ’ t caught me. 
 
 “ Is everything OK, Karen? ” 
 
 I looked around the wreckage of the diner and began giggling. I laughed so hard my body shook and tears poured from my eyes. Joe continued wrapping the bandage around my wrist. The sirens sounded on the edge of my hearing, and Joe froze. He turned my head toward him. 
 
 “ Karen? I need to know you ’ re OK. ” 
 
 I nodded, wiping at my tear-streaked cheeks with the back of my hand. 
 “ Yes, well, no. You know what I mean? ” 
 He smiled. 
 
 “ OK, Karen. Listen closely. I was here, but I ran when the shooting started, just like the couple at the counter did. That man, over there, in the trench coat, he started shooting up the place then shot himself. I did not come in today. Do you understand? ” 
 
 Red and blue lights reflected off the glass windows of the buildings around us, the sirens screaming down the corridor. I nodded. Joe nodded. He pulled a flat, silver box out of his pocket and opened the lid. He handed me an envelope and smiled. I checked the side. It was full of cash. 
 
 “ Thanks for all the great service, Karen. ” 
 
 “ You ’ re – you ’ re wel – welcome, Joe, ” I stuttered. 
 
 He pushed a button inside the box, winked, and vanished. I was still standing, dumbstruck, clutching my throbbing wrist, when the cops barged in the door. I never saw Joe again. 
 
 
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