It was quiet. He liked that about the early morning, how he could drift through it without the noise. He'd walk up Bank and turn right at Lisgar, then across to Elgin and he'd make another right. There was never a crowd at such an early hour. The cars would pass by, as much in their own worlds as he was in his.
He sometimes wondered why it had to be this hour, turning it over in his mind as he passed by Gilmour, then MacLaren. The city seemed fresh and untouched around dawn. It reminded him of hockey practices as a boy, a cold morning drive to the rink and a rush to be the first one on the ice. He'd always loved the look of the fresh surface. He'd dig his skates in and leave a wide, arcing mark as soon as he touched it.
He felt like that in the mornings, like he was leaving a fresh mark on a clean city. He did not like the city at night. He always imagined the hustlers or pimps or those even worse, hiding just at the edge of the streetlights. He rarely slept though. He'd stay in, reading books and listening to old records that had belonged to his grandfather. The books were from the library, well worn and without any real pattern, and the records were all old country the likes of Hank Williams and Patsy Cline.
The only book that was actually his, the only one he owned, he always carried with him. If one were to open it, and he hadn't in months, one would find the following inscription just below the inside title:
To William
With all the love in the world,
Mom, Dad and Sis
At the corner of Elgin and Florence there was a coffee shop. The server was usually a Hungarian, quiet by nature and still not comfortable enough with his English to make much conversation. At this hour the place was usually empty and oftentimes the only words spoken were when William placed his order. The Hungarian was usually busy in the kitchen, either cooking or cleaning, and if not would sit silently behind the counter reading newspapers from Budapest that were usually a week or two old.
One day though, the Hungarian came down sick, and Robert found a young university student in his place. She seemed to be his age, with curly red hair and pleasant round cheeks. "Oh hey," she said. "Grab a seat anywhere and I'll be right with you."
Silently, Robert chose a table in the corner, by the window. As he sat down he took the book out of his pocket and placed it across the table from him. The girl came over and poured him a cup of coffee. "Hi, I'm Sarah. Can I get you some breakfast? Some toast, maybe, or do you want bacon and eggs?"
"Eggs please, scrambled."
"Just eggs? That's not much of a breakfast. You sure you don't want any toast?"
"No, thanks, just the eggs."
As she turned towards the kitchen, she noticed the book. She'd read it often, and considered it one of her favorites. "I love that book," she said, "I don't think they get any better than Faulkner."
"I haven't read it," he replied.
"No? Looks like you've had it for a while."
"It was a gift from my parents a while ago. Well, from my whole family, I guess."
"Oh, I wish my family gave me books. Your family must be pretty good to you."
He thought about what to say next. He thought about telling her, about letting her know everything. "Yeah, I guess they are. At least, they..."
As he hesitated, he suffered through an eternity of thought. He thought about everything he could ever say, everything he ever wanted her to hear, everything he wanted to tell her. And then there was the sound of the door opening and another customer entered.
"Well, I won't be long with your eggs," she said, slipping a red curl behind her ear, then disappearing through the kitchen's doors.
Robert wasn't sure if Sarah had noticed the pause, couldn't be sure if he'd even wanted her to. He knew he liked her.
He thought about a lot of things as soon as she left. He thought about his birthday three years earlier, when they'd all been coming up to see him. He thought about the call he'd gotten right around the time he was expecting them to show up. He thought about the box that the police had given him; it held the stuff they'd recovered from inside the car. There wasn't much, a blanket his sister had probably brought with her, a few other things, and the book that was meant for him. He thought about the waitress, how nice she seemed. He thought about getting to know her better, about taking her out, maybe to a movie, maybe dancing. He hadn't been dancing in three years. He thought about all of this.
When she brought him his eggs, he said nothing. When he paid his bill, he was silent. As he left the diner, he looked at the early city differently. It wasn't a clean sheet of ice anymore, but a calm surface of water. He knew that any mark he made wouldn't last, wasn't meant to last. A quick streak and disappearing ripples: that was all he did this early in the morning. As he walked down Elgin and turned left onto Argyle, he wondered if that's what he'd meant to do all along.
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