“Daaaa..shoot,” Corderoy muttered as he folded and dropped his paper. He chided himself for his difficulty in stopping swearing then turned his attention fully to the man at the far end of the cafe. The place was one of those shotgun shack style places right on Mission St, so he wasn’t far.

With a refined air woefully out of place in the Bohemian climbs of San Francisco the man sipped a cappucino, dainty mug dangling at the end of a ponderously gangly arm. The gray, three piece suit bespoke style and culture. The graying hair told a tale of countless years. Smallish eyes nestled behind rimless glasses, tiny impenetrable black dots, dots that conspicuously never looked directly at Corderoy.

6 years, 4 months, 2 neighborhoods, and more cafes than he could count, but Corderoy swore he’d seen this same fellow come and go into all of them. He’d been there, never looking directly, just sipping away. Silly as he felt for taking this long to notice, he stood to meet the man, confront the stylish specter.