I watch him walk in, head up, eyes down; he isn’t used to the confidence that comes with the early 30s . The café is a small one, just out of the way enough to forgive the assumption that every patron either lives nearby or will only ever visit once. My guess is the former. No one turns to look at him, not even the girl behind the counter, and that seems to suit him just fine. The momentum of his arrival doesn’t subside until he’s right up to the till and I’m sure he spent that handful of paces composing what he would say to order the same thing he gets at every coffee shop he walks into. He stops to admire a monstera before gently turning his attention to the barista. 

He’s pleasant, kind. On his back is a denim jacket, uncomfortably small, yet still worn as a final cling to those early adult years when the world allowed such arrogance. A patch on each shoulder praises a band he would have first discovered in a shop just like this one. As soon as he pays for his order, he steps to the side and I catch myself, some minutes later, having forgotten he was there. It took him picking up his coffee for my attention to grab him again.

He’s a common piece, but not insignificant. The kind that can turn invisible.