The first thing I noticed about Jim was the second coffee.
Not his age.
Every Friday evening, Bradley, Lily, and I ate dinner at Miller’s Table, a small family restaurant between a pharmacy and a dry cleaner on Orchard Lane.
Bradley ordered meatloaf. I ordered chicken pot pie after pretending to consider the menu. Lily changed her mind five times before choosing pancakes, because breakfast for dinner felt like winning.
And every Friday, at the table by the window, Jim sat alone.
At least, that was how it looked.
He ordered two dinners.
Two coffees.
Jim sat alone.
The waitress, Marcy, never asked. She simply brought both plates and set the second mug across from him, handle turned to the right.
One meal stayed untouched.
One coffee cooled under the yellow window light.