The Writers' Circle

He sits by the window. He smells the gravy from the next table and the coffee from the booth nearer to the larger front windows. A couple drinks the coffee in question, they are silent, eyes averted, her chest heaves out of her top. Her expression moves him, lingering on violence and anger, most certainly at the fault of the gentlemen sitting across from her, sipping his coffee like some scolded schoolboy. 
Sir. Sir what can I get you?
He finally notices the waitress. He orders. All seems normal again, the couple have left. 
He is a regular here, but they don't seem to like him much. He doesn't tip well, if at all. He is quiet, however this is all too often misinterpreted as rude or antisocial. And he is always alone. It unsettles people, especially the young waitresses, who fear loneliness as he did when he was their age.
He finishes and pays the bill. He gives a small tip on account of the entertainment provided by the couple with the coffee. The street outside is dead. The night is static with heat, it's breath caught. There is no wind and no sign of cloud. 
He walks to his apartment building. It is an ugly place to live, paint peeling, wood chipping, most apartments empty. He makes straight for bed, there is no chance of greatness tonight. 

He wakes in the early hours of the morning. Rain spills and beats it's torrent of water. He feels safe, yet disturbed. From a young age he has feared the weather, intrigued that some form of pathetic fallacy could be a token of the future. The rain worries him. When he was a child, his father would not go out in the rain. He stayed at home, restrained, cornered like an animal in a cage. Mark his territory like a dog, on his wife and son. That's all over now, he thinks. And he falls back asleep. 

The rain is lighter, in the morning, but the sky is still a dark, dull grey. The clouds gather over the sea, and he worries for the boats out on the ocean. He was never good with boats, he didn't live by the sea until his mid-thirties and does not enjoy it's vastness, or the power it has. 
He eats breakfast. He reads the newspaper. He fills out the suduko. He gets dressed. A routine. However, today he goes to visit an old friend. Not from this town, or anywhere near it. Still lives in London, with a wife and two children. Two boys? A boy and a girl? He cannot remember. He is nervous. The train is as on edge as he is. Jolts and bumps, pushed upwards and sidewards. Stops at the station for a second of release, and begins it's swing and flare and tremble again. It reminds his of seasickness, the incessant motion of the water shaking the boat in the same way. Even as he leaves the train behind, his seasickness (or trainsickness he thinks) remains, agitating his bloated stomach. He arrives and finds himself embarrassed, feeling as though he has walked in on an argument, and his friend's sudden realization that he has forgotten their meeting. Apologies exchanged, the day continues, in the midst of a child's sleepover. I should be saddened, he thinks, that I do not have this. That a child is not smearing the leftover of their pizza onto my pristine white walls. That I do not have a wife who is resentful of me, in every way. But he is not saddened. He is content with the worth of his life. He knows it is not worth much, maybe nothing at all. But he is content.