Leanne Davis [Davis - At the Next Table

A LICIA

Okay, I give up. This guy is odd.

Ive watched this guy for the last two weeks, and nothing about his morning routine changes. Its not a typical routine either, and therefore what garnered my initial attention. He walks into the small, lovely coffee shop and does the same thing day after day. His over six feet of height and bulky arm muscles were what first drew my interestsure. A hot guy? A coffee shop line? Why not?

The first morning, I ducked into line directly behind him. It so happened to be my first time in the establishment. I had to glance at the door to remind myself where here was. Lovers Landing. Cute name. The counter was being worked by an older, adorable lady, who people kept calling Betty. The line wasnt necessarily from the excessive crowd, but from the care and conversation Betty seemed to give every. Single. Customer. Is this small town living? Yikes. So not my thing. Im from Seattle. Coffee is kind of our thing. But in the form of Starbucks. Everywhere. Every corner.

But Im here in Love, Georgia, on business. Since Im staying for several weeks, I need a coffee shop, and theres no damn Starbucks. Nowhere. I cant find even one. What kind of madness is this? Theres only this place: Lovers Landing. Did the city council purposely somehow zone it so no big coffee chains could get licensing within the city limits? Was it their attempt at keeping large corporations from stomping out the mom-and-pop shops inside the town? I cant imagine that being policy.

And honestly? Mom-and-pop owners of any small business definitely dont want me here. Even though I bring business to their small town, renting a room out of the local bed and breakfast, eating at the bakery, and inhabiting their coffee shop every morning since I first found it.

But only because of him. This man. I cant help but watch him.

Ive never had this urge before, but the first morning inside the coffee shopbehind this manId eye-balled his backside, because oh hell yeah, was it nice. Deep, tight buns encased in worn and faded blue jeans. I almost needed to fan myself. Theres the whole country-boy thing clinging to this guy. He wears a sheepskin lined brown coat that says Carhartt over his left breast and a black cowboy hat on his head. He has nice-ass legs dropped into cowboy boots that arent for fashion. No, those babies are wrinkled and creased and offset where his outer foot must push over the soles of his boots when he steps. They are clean, however. Meticulously clean.

This is how the mans morning goes, without fail and without change, every single morning since Ive first noticed him:

He stops outside the front door of the coffee shop. He stares inside. He stares at the damn name on the door as if hes never seen it before. He steps to the side and scrapes both his boots almost feverishly on the boot scraper, so thoughtfully provided. Because lord knows how many people nowadays need access to a boot scraper! Finally, he enters the shop. He glances around as if startled and confused about why he is standing in the establishment, yet he brought himself there.

Finally, after what seems like a ridiculously long moment of contemplation, he gets in the coffee line. Once he reaches the cash register, he and Betty confer in quiet, intimate voices. After the first day I made sure to be directly behind him every single day. I strain to listen. I step closer the third day, squinting up at the menu as if Im having trouble reading it.

Still I cant hear. Then, hes handed two drinks. Two. Holden and Harper. His girlfriend? It makes me giggle at the sing-song sound of it, Holden and Harper. What if they are married? Oh, I hope their last name is Hooper or Harvey or something to make them a complete tongue twister.

Drinks in hand, to-go cups at that, Holden then sits down. He sits at the exact same table every single time. Its centered on the window, one table inside the establishment. Its a four-seat table, but he sits there by himself. With his two cups. He folds his arms over his chest. Oh! A delicious chest of wide shoulders that slope down into thick arm musclesI just love when a guy has that distinct slope of muscles from his shoulder and neck muscles. Id like to lick it bite it well, thats a little ahead of this situation because Ive yet to get Holden whoever to even glance at me, despite several distinct and well-executed tries. The guy is immune.

So there he is at his big table, all alone, with two drinks. Neither of which he touches. He stares at the chair opposite of him. Stares hard. Hes in a trance, I swear. He leans back in his chair, the small, rounded wooden back only hitting him mid-back. He stretches his long legs out before him and slouches while contemplating the empty chair across from him for a good ten minutes. The time it might take to actually finish a cup of coffee. No more. No less.

The first few days I try to get his attention. I try bumping into him in the line, but he doesnt even turn so I can mumble sorry or excuse me and then jump into some kind of quick and smooth transition to a conversation. Whatever I do, itll have to be quick. Hes clueless anyone else seems to be around him.

I then bump into him while he sits, contemplating the empty chair in front of him. It almost seems like he pretends someone is there, but he doesnt put Harpers cup there. Thank God. Or I might just conclude he has an imaginary friend or worse, an imaginary girlfriend.

But the cups stay directly in front of him. For how precisely he enters the place, and sits in the same chair and the same table, hes oddly careless with the cups. He sets them wherever they end up and pushes them off to the side of him, as if they are in his way. Does he order the drinks to have a reason to sit there? Does nobody else notice he doesnt touch them? But Betty always so conscientiously makes his drinks. Its the fourth day when I realize one of his drinks are premade, sitting off to the side and ready for Holden when he walks in. At seven thirty-fivenot a minute before or a minute afterhes scraping his boots and opening the door, every single morning.

Hes usually seated by seven thirty-nine to seven forty. Then for the next ten minutes, he glares at the chair across from him, his arms folded over his chest, his gaze not roaming once. Its a hopping place, and yet nothing draws his attention from his dark scowl at the empty chair. Odder still, no one disturbs him. On day five, two tables over from Holden, three people squeeze into a two-seat table, and they need another chair. Why not take one of the three spares Holden keeps occupied at his underused four-person table? But, nope. They dont even ask.

What in the hell?

Day seven I change locations. From then until day fourteen, I make sure Im seated at the table that sits directly across from him. I sit in the chair that puts me staring forward, right at him. I lift my gaze to stare out the window, but in doing so Im looking right at him. I glance often, because Im not able to stare without blinking at one spot like this guy does. He should glance around. How can anyone be that compartmentalized in public? Its busy in here, with people coming and going constantly. The doorbell jingles with each open and close. People drop things. People chatter or laugh or or once a lady yelled at another lady for spilling on her table. But, nope. Holden doesnt glance up with the usual human reflex of curiosity at loud noises to see whats happening or why. I might think hes deaf, or hard of hearing, but he does communicate with Betty, and she leans forward to speak into his ear, so no lip reading or sign language. He just zones out so much he doesnt realize there are sounds around him or that Im staring at him.