A small café on a quiet street. The buildings around here are old and worn. They look as if only the collective will of the local inhabitants are all that keep them from collapsing from neglect.

He sits at a patio table, cigarette dangling from a loose arm. He's looking at nothing in particular, just staring off into space as he contemplates what lead him here and what will lead him away. A waitress comes out with a menu, places it on the table, and leaves. Why does she bother? It's not like he's going to look through and order something different. It's always the same coffee and sandwich that he orders. Every day.

His pack of Marlboros, beaten and open. There's perhaps four or five missing. Slowly he raises that arm of his, brings the cigarette up to his mouth. He pauses, the filter floating a mere inch and a half from his lips. He stares as an old woman walks by the café, wonders what the future will bring to him. He puts the cigarette to mouth, takes a drag, and slowly lets the arm drop again.

The waitress returns. He takes a moment to focus, to get his thoughts together. Finally, he looks to the waitress, and orders the coffee -- black -- and sandwich. Always a turkey on rye with mustard and no lettuce. She takes the menu, walks back inside. He goes back to staring out into nothing.