He doesn't make friends easily.
It's hardly that he lacks knowledge regarding how to handle himself in public, or that he's closed off from the rest of the world; far from it. In fact he's forever out there, and has street smarts beyond his years.
But he has nothing to go home to, and isn't particularly interested in acquiring anything of the sort.
###
He's a regular at a certain diner, and his order is always the same: black coffee and a BLT on rye, hold the tomato. Every employee knows him—the Nameless Man, they call him. Dark hair, sweater with an MIT emblem, oxford shoes, sequestered in a corner, book in hand. He's gracious but distant, always alone, and leaves very exact tips.
###
Christmas is always quiet here, and especially so today. Just two customers have come, and it's already four o'clock.
It's only Cook and Marcy today; none of the other waitresses are willing to work on Christmas.
But, unlike them, Marcy has no one to go home to.
###
Cook wants to close up shop at six, but at five forty-five the bell over the door rings, and the Nameless Man enters, a thick volume tucked under his arm. He goes up to the counter and stares expectantly, drumming his fingers.
"One…one today sir?" Marcy stammers. He nods brusquely. Handing him a menu, she starts to lead him to his table, but he knows the location and reaches there twice as fast.
She forces a smile as he seats himself, and pulls a notepad and pen out of her pocket.
"What would you like to drink?"
"Coffee."
"Should I bring cream or sugar?"
"No."
Sighing, Marcy sticks her notepad back in her pocket and the pen behind her ear. She makes her way into the kitchen and drains the coffeepot into a mug. Bringing it back to his table, she sees that his book—Crime and Punishment, the cover says—remains unopened. Carefully setting the cup down, she takes the notepad from her pocket again and plucks her writing utensil from behind her ear.
"Are you ready to order?"
"BLT on rye, hold the tomato." The way he says it is mechanical and robot-like. Unhuman.
"Yes sir. I'll have that right out." She replies. Walking back to the kitchen, she comes face-to-face with Cook.
"Who is it?" he asks, gruff and unforgiving.
"The Nameless Man. Wanting the usual."
"Well, look, I promised Gwendolyn I'd be home by six thirty, and I have a long commute. I'm going to leave now. You close up whenever you want to." Snatching his coat and hat, he leaves through the back door.
Sighing again, she looks around the kitchen. Pulling out some rye bread, she puts it in the toaster on medium and yanks two thawed slices of bacon out of the refrigerator. Tossing them into a frying pan and putting them over the heat, she rinses her hands at the sink.
They take a little while to start fizzing, but once they do they're at it a mile a minute, flinging grease everywhere, especially on her, and for once she wishes she had glasses to protect her eyes from the infernal cousins of sparks.
After a few flips they're done, and she drains them on old newspaper. Marcy doesn't read the news, and she's about to put down one of the slices when she sees a strangely familiar picture. Sliding the bacon to the opposite end of the paper, she glances at the caption.
Anthony Newman, author of "Defining Physics", an award-winning essay on many scientific theories of the past decade.
Looking at the picture again, she sees that it is the Nameless Man.
And he's smiling, so vaguely that you might miss it, but smiling nonetheless.
Plucking out the toast, she slathers on some mayonnaise and then puts the bacon in. Fetching a lettuce leaf, she adds that, slaps the two halves together and puts the sandwich on a plate. Carrying it out, she sets it down in front of him.
"Anything else I can get you…Mr. Newman?"
He looks up.
"No…may I ask how you know my name?"
"I read about you in the paper. 'Defining Physics' must have been some essay."
He snorts. "Not exactly. It was blown, way, way out of proportion in the news coverage. My doctorate is in electro-physics, but that piece certainly wasn't the cream of the crop."
"So you're Dr. Newman then. Forgive me." She sighs. "I wanted to take physics in high school, but Daddy wouldn't let me. He had a bad experience with it once."
Dr. Newman nods, taking a bite of his sandwich. "It's hard stuff," he says, mouth full, "And I had the most unforgiving teacher for it in twelfth grade. Mmm, this is good on toast. Would you care to sit down?" he offers, gesturing to the seat across from him.
Sincerely grinning for the first time in forever, she quickly replies, "I'd love to. I just need to do something first."
Hightailing it to the other side of the diner, she stealthily flips the open sign.
Walking back, she pulls out the chair.
"So, why did you get into physics?"