The Man

• Tracy Kimungui, Grade 8
• Short Story
• 2020

The man stared at the window. A blank expression crossed his features. He watched as the droplets of rain fell against the front glass of the small coffee shop.

He didn’t say anything.

He never did.

‘Anna would have liked this,’ was always the first thought that came to his mind.

But Anna was gone. And she wasn’t coming back.

And neither was Jerry, Louis, and Lillian.

Everyone knows people can’t be brought back from the dead.

You could only wish. But alas, wishing can only do so much.

The medium-sized mug in front of him halfway drank. The smoke forming from the heat of the beverage. The heart-shaped coffee art that never failed to make him smile once he saw it. His scone was untouched as usual.

The waitress watched him in silence from the counter. She was always curious as to what captured his thoughts for so long.
He never noticed her.

‘Why order a scone if you’re not going to eat it? Why drink your beverage only halfway? What’s the point?’ she always thought.

Only the man knew. Not everything has to happen for a reason.

That was his routine. Wake up, get dressed, walk to the coffee shop across the street. He never needed to speak since everyone knew his order off by heart. He would walk over to the same spot furthest from the front door, beside the window at the corner where no one would bother him.

And no one did.

Whenever it rained, and it rained a lot, he would gaze at the raindrops falling until they stopped. Even if it took all night. Well, until the shop closed which was at 6:00 pm on the dot. He would always lose track of time whenever the rain was especially heavy and have the workers notify him it’s time to leave.

When that happened, he would pick up his trusty yellow umbrella, white stars engraved around it, and open it the moment he stepped foot outside.

The workers would watch him walk further way until he turned the corner.
Some wondered whether he was ill. Others would wonder whether he was sad. But others knew he was simply just... a man.

A man who was tired. So very tired. And there was only so much hurt a man could take.

The man would walk all the way back to his eight-roomed mansion, place his umbrella downwards next to the coat rack, and turn on the radio which played ‘Imagine’ by John Lennon on repeat for a few hours.

When this happened, the man would sit in the same old blue rocking armchair and rock back and forth as he closed his eyes.

Nothing needed to be said.

There was no one for him to talk to anyway.

Music was his only friend.

His only reminder of them.

He was alone. As he always was.

When the night was over, the man would then wake up.

And do the same thing all over again.