I sit in a brightly-lit diner at the corner of a street which has hours ago emptied out. I pretend to listen to the conversation between the two men with me when a third one walks in. He looks into my eyes then nods to the man behind the counter. He keeps his fedora on as he takes his seat. He sips the coffee he soundlessly asked for and pulls from his suit pocket a small paperback of Camus’s Myth Of Sisyphus. He opens to a page, begins to read and never looks my way again.