There's a man who always sits at a particular table at a particular café on a particular beach and orders a particular coffee, time after time, every Sunday. He even wears the same shirt. He sits there for exactly twelve minutes, finishes his coffee, pays for it with the exact change, down to the exact number of coins each time, walks up and down the beach thrice, before getting into his car and driving away. You may observe him and call him a man of habit and leave it at that. I look at him and imagine that he's in love with the lady who cooks the fish at the café – the lady who only works there on Sundays, and is thinking of ways to ask her to marry him, but can't make up his mind because he's got a family waiting for him at home. I pray that I never see him.
Talks about books, movies and all things in between.