What is he, some kind of writer?
Sitting there, dirty plates in front of him
fork and knife at five o'clock like he thinks some waiter will come and pick them up.
Trash in his cup sitting atop his pile of dishes.
Neat. Tidy. Fastidious is a good word.
scribbling in his notebook, occasionally glancing up, listening to conversations around him.
Or checking his phone for text messages.
His coat beside him, his back pack by his seat.
What a fucking artist.
And he has only one line left.
Look how he's wasted it.
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