Working in a small coffee shop right smack in the middle of the city, I had made a habit of observing people. It was so easy to focus on the noise of the city, the car horns, construction sites blaring with the sound of industrial equipment, and the never ending conversations between the walking mob of the city. For some, listening was enough stimulation but I needed more, I needed to know the people who call this deafening concrete jungle their home. Being stuck behind a counter, it was difficult to notice everyone, but for those who walked through our front door it was only second nature to take note of them. We have those who we see maybe once or twice a month, those who drop by on a weekly basis and of course our dedicated regulars who know all of our names like we know their orders. I often think about this during my time behind the counter, sometimes distracting me from a waiting customer like it was at this very moment. In this case it was one of our regulars, a younger gentleman dressed sharp as always, wearing a black turtleneck covered by a sleek looking peacoat and a pair of carefully pressed khakis. Unlike a lot of the younger men in the city, he’s always clean shaven, well dressed and holds the best posture I’ve ever seen in my life. As of late, he began bringing a leather tote that he had slung over his shoulder every morning. He’s very soft spoken when he makes his order, almost sounding careful or cautious, like his words could somehow hurt him. Depending on the bustle of the city streets outside, this often had me asking for him to repeat his order. His voice seems almost out of place seeing as he looked down on me standing at a modest six feet tall. His height isn’t unnatural, but you could easily pick him out of a crowd.

A medium chai tea and a blueberry muffin was his usual order, and he always had the exact change for it. This was the first time in quite a while that I had seen him in the shop, and the last time I saw him he was wearing his Marine dress blues, sticking with his well dressed ways. Now, almost six months later he had returned to his normal routine in the city, but I had seen him wearing a peacoat much more often than his dress blues. He reached over the counter to pay for his breakfast with exactly $3.52 as usual, and instead of my hand meeting his, it met a set of cold prosthetic fingers, only made colder by the nippy New England winter we were in the middle of. He took his breakfast in one hand, holding on to the strap for the leather tote in the other and walked calmly to an empty booth, but not without a soft “have a nice day”.

It was only natural to wonder what had happened to him in the past six months, but I was afraid to ask. I began thinking of all the possibilities, maybe his unit was attacked or bombed and his hand was a small price to pay compared to his brothers in arms, maybe he had it caught in a piece of machinery at the base. I couldn’t take it, I pulled another cashier in to take my place and moved carefully to the table where the sharp dressed man was sitting, tapping away on his computer, which I only assumed was what the leather tote was protecting from the elements. At this point my heart rate was speeding up by the second, and the shop had become sensory overload. Voices were louder, my depth perception was gone and I could feel the sweat on my palms rolling down to the tips of my fingers. In what seemed like an eternity, I had finally made my way across the shop and was standing at the edge of his booth. “Is it ok if I sit here?” I asked, sounding painfully nervous. With a simple nod and a smile he made room at the booth space opposite him for my arms to rest. Before I could even open my mouth for a second time he looked up and said “Let me guess, you want the story of what happened here”, pointing at his hand. The fact that he asked made me feel guilty about my curiosity. I hesitated, carefully planning my next move. “N-no sir, I just wanted to say, thank you, and your breakfast is on us..” I left a five dollar bill sitting on the table, enough to cover today, and part of next time, and slid myself out of the booth. Taking a deep breath I returned to the counter, thinking to myself that I didn’t even wait for him to respond. Back behind the cash register, I took one more glance up at his booth, but he had already slid out the door, not leaving a trace of him ever sitting there.