He comes in around the same time every Thursday, Saturday, and Sunday eating alone save for the newspapers constantly clutched beneath his arm his spectacles worn to ice his windbreaker and khakis every time ordering the same salad, soup, and pasta dish He doesnβt talk much and I like that his words are rare occurrences of honest observation a reflection of the aged, sad look which he wears on his face every Thursday, Saturday, and Sunday just before the dinner rush I never see him arrive or leave simply he appears a ghost from an old photograph walking among the swirling mess of flesh, blood, and heartbeats I bet he drives an Oldsmobile or maybe a buick stick shift with faded leather interior I bet he had a wife once who loved him and children who werenβt too grown up to give him a call every now and then just to check in I think about this man under the closing-time moon as I pull myself into my car and leave away with my own life my own story and I aim not to forget him