Scene from Garden Diner

The boy with short hair and heavy eyes walks in quiet and, murmuring his order to the waiter, takes his seat in the midnight diner booth.
Usually, he drinks coffee, after it has, for ten minutes, cooled. He drinks it black, until the pale brown that remains reveals the few grounds that managed their way through the filter while brewing.
The waiter seats him. "Coffee?"
The boy with clean face and heavy eyes says, "No. Just water for now." He later orders iced tea. The ice melts, for ten minutes, then he drinks.
The crowd around him, scattered, but collected away from the front windows, which look onto the wet pavement outside, is more excited and perk up during conversation.
The heavy-eyed boy takes a mouthful of bitter tea, and swallows.
He replaces the cup to its ring of condensation. He stretches his shoulders from his neck, and his head from his shoulders, then yawns.
The waiter across the diner sighs heavy.
I saw him earlier, frustrated that the boy ordered only tea. Something is on his mind as his shoulders drop, and he waits for the plates headed to table six.
No steam rises from the plates. The food doesn't come out piping hot at Garden Diner; just lukewarm. The boy with heavy eyes and clean face likes this. He can eat straight away.
The teaspoon sets broad-side down over the wedge of lemon on the corner of his rectangle paper napkin. The napkin is parallel with the table edges. His ice water dribbles condensation at his idle left hand. Beside it, his cutlery on a second napkin. At his right hand, the bill and his cup of tea.
A boombox masquerading as a cellphone presently challenges the diner radio. It's lo-fi Latino ballads against oldies, talk, and commercials on HD stereo.
The chatter lifts to laughter. The heavy-lidded boy smirks to hear it. He then steps away from his booth, leaving his wearisome burden behind.
The waiter stares at the cluttered seats, and at the couples and groups coming in, sitting at the other waiters' tables.
It's expensive to live in this town and the waiter knows the boy feels it; and that he himself will not get what he needs from this slow-moving, quiet boy.
The boy sits. The boom box forfeited the challenge to 60s R&B/Soul. A party left and several late night love-birds have their conversations. The boy makes a pattern with his tea's condensation rings.