It's November the 21, 1963. There is a man sitting in a diner off the main street just before the road meets Dealey Plaza. A steaming cup of coffee sits before him, untouched. His long fingers lace around it loosely and his thumb worries a small chip in the handle. The leather jacket he is wearing is pulled tight from his arms resting high on the edge of the small table. Around him, people chatter excitedly, filling the place with the light clink and chatter of a restaurant. He doesn't drink.
"Big day tomorrow," he says to the waitress who has come by to see if he wants anything else to eat. The waitress looks up from her pad, red lips parting into a big grin. She didn't realize he had an accent before now. Something British for sure.
"I'm so excited," she breaths, gum smacking loudly, "I mean, it's not every day you get to see the President."
He presses his lips together in a small smile. It doesn't reach his eyes.
"I'm more interested in what happens after," he admits, shrugging a shoulder and gesturing with one hand out the window. The waitress sees something in his eyes then. Something dark but desperately lonely.
"What do you mean?" There is a drop in her stomach when her the words come out.
He smiles again but it makes him look even more hollow than before.
"Nothing, just talking to myself. Welp better be getting on with it. Loads to do after. Don't mind me, I'll be getting out of your way." Standing up he scoots past her, palming something silver into his pocket. He doesn't look back.
The waitress realizes too late he never paid for his coffee. She doesn't chase after him. She doesn't go around the corner and hear the low wheezing sound of a wooden blue box. Instead she picks up the undrunk cup of coffee and dumps it down the sink. She doesn't want to know what he was talking about.
Tomorrow she'll sit stunned with the rest of America. She'll think of what he said. She'll wonder if it was worth not chasing after him to find out what he meant ahead of time. She'll wonder if it was worth a cup of coffee.
