He sits at the small table on a wobbly metal chair, appearing perfectly ­average and wearing the same jacket every day. His eyes seem flat, lost in thought. Not emotionless, because a lack of emotion doesn't close its eyes and cradle a tired face in an icy palm. It doesn't bend over, four inches from the paper, and scribble ­intensely, gripping the pen so tightly the fingertips wrapped around it like snakes turn white.

He sits here for 30 minutes every weekday at 8:12 a.m.. The green truck pulls in at 8:10, and it takes him two minutes to walk in and take his place at the wooden table. It's not his place necessarily, but everyone knows he will sit there, and so they don't. I stand in line to place my order while he pulls out his old notebook and ­favorite pen.

He sits next to the window, and every now and then he looks out through the glass. I don't know what he sees. I try to see him; try to figure him out. It's harder than I anticipated. Every morning when we walk into the cafe, my arm looped through his, I consider it the time for my wordless observation experiment. By now I know all his habits and preferences, but that is only the what. I wonder if I will ever truly understand the why and how, the processes of his mind. I wonder if someday I will be able look out that window and know what he sees, and how he sees it. It's like putting a puzzle together without looking at the front of the box. Sometimes I think I have it all figured out, only to realize the pieces don't quite fit.

I sit next to my husband with my coffee and his blueberry bagel, watching him write, and sometimes draw. He slips a piece of paper across the table toward me. It's a simple sketch of me, standing in line, staring out the window.