The Stranger by Diana Sandalova

He looks as if he was taken from
one of those old postcards and put in the world where a motivational phrase made of LED-lights re-painted his skin into mixture of lime-green and pink. “Drinks on me!” – is written on a sign, that is located right above this guy’s head. He doesn’t seem to mind, nor he is distracted by the loud, techno music  – his eyes are buried in something on his table.
This café had recently changed the owner, who redecorated the whole place - making the “grandma-style” burrow into the raging, modern bar, filled by people who take their drinks with a dozen of syrups and speak about politics and cartoons in a same sentence. That’s why the guy, or, rather, the man looks so out of place. He is quite older than anybody else here, (probably his late forties), and is not choking on a wild alcoholic beverage. Now, you can also see - there is a book in his hands. An old, cheap paperback, that had his attention for the last hour. His posture says “shy”, which is weird, ‘cause  his back is as straight as an arrow – how this two things can co-exist in the same person is a mystery. Some stranger bumps into his chair, spitting apologies, and goes away. The man smiles to himself, unbothered, and shifts in his chair, trying to smooth down the creases of his old, ragged suit. With these manners, you could of sworn you’d seen him in your school somewhere – everything about this man screams “teacher”, except, probably, for his hair. It looks like a stack of hey – the same summer-y color, though you can hardly see it in a darkness of the room, it is way too messy and out of place to be considered serious. The waitress - two empty beer glasses in one hand, a small notebook in other – comes to his table and writes down an order. Taking his eyes out of the book for one second, he gives a girl a small smile, and looks back into creased pages.
- One earl gray for table five! – screams the waitress seconds later to the guy, who is holding a bottle behind the bar. He smiles fondly, finishes drink and takes out a jar of tea leaves.
- Tea? Has somebody already had enough? – asks a girl, who is drinking her second martini this evening. She turns around with her friend, laughing and trying to figure out two things: who is the weirdo drinking tea at 1 am and how not to fall from your chair while looking for a weirdo who drinks tea at 1 am. Her eyes settle on “the teacher” and she quickly tuns back, whispering back to her friend and throwing glances at a guy behing the bar. The bartender, smiling again, gives her a quick explanation: - He is a regular. Has been, for, like, five years at least.
- I thought this club opened a year ago?
- Yeah. Before, this place was a café. A nice one, even, –  the bartender says, clearly not in the mood of continuing the conversation. Still, the girl stops sipping her drink and looks even more curious.
- My name’s Melissa, - she starts, not bothered by her friend’s remarks of how stupid it is to give your name to strangers. – Yeah, I’m Melissa, and I just quit my job, and I think my boyfriend want’s a break, so I will tip you, like, a lot, - she stutters, - Ok, not a lot, but I’ll tip. Now please, tell me, what is the story behind this?
The bartender gives her a tired look. Melissa thinks, that she is probably not the first one to be asking questions from this guy, while he is trying to do his work, but alcohol mixed with flashes of light and sadness overpowers her will to be respectable. In a quick movement of hands drinks are made, mint and sugar turns into mojito, and the bartender frowns, but still says:
- They, there were three friends, they used to come to the café. He is a nice one, other two cost us five broken cups and a chair. Table five, over there, is their table – every Friday I had a day shift and every Friday they had the loudest meeting. – he signed, but, curiously, his annoyance seemed fake. - Old friends, I believe. Last year, two others… Well, it’s not my story to tell.
- And now? – Melissa shifts in her chair, - Why does he still come here? I mean, don’t get me wrong, does he realize it’s a bar, not a library?
Moving away, to make another drink, the bartender leaves her alone with her thoughts. He probably didn’t hear the last bits of her drunken monologue, and the girl looks back again. Weird man is still sitting there, now, slowly drinking his cup of tea. His check is covered with coins, and he is still reading that book, carefully turning the pages. Dry fingers are holding that paperback with such care, as if it is the most precious one in the world. Somebody screams something along the lines of “Catch me, if you can!” and the odd man’s head flies up in a second, searching for something, that is not there. He shifts again in his chair, and Melissa can see that his other hand is circling the wooden table, in soft motions, like there is something carved under his fingers. At this moment, it seems so funny to her – his face is calm, stoic, and it looks as if he is unaware of the mess, that is happening around him, only to be so carelessy betrayed by his own foot, that is tapping to the rhythm of the obscure, loud music
Melissa leaves with her friend after dancing for two hours, her thoughts are whipped into one giant mess. – I think he misses them. – she quietly says, walking out of the bar. – It seems like something big is missing from him, you know? Maybe they left and he is trying to fill in the void! I should, - she stumbles on her feet, - I should be a detective. 
- I think it’s sad, - shrugs her friend, also tired and worn-out from the night.
- I think it’s nice. I think, we all need someone to remember us.
- He still should go to a library, Melissa, - says the girl next to her. Melissa smiles at that, and looks up, searching for answer in the starless sky. The night is warm, and air tastes like grass and lemons, by some weird reason.
Later, she falls asleep, thinking about tea and friendships, regretting not asking the odd man’s name. Nobody says “good night” to her that day. She wonders, if the loneliness was made out of concept of a human itself.