“What’s he doin’, though?”
“Chain smokin,” said the chef, who was doing much the same–though he hadn’t been at it for the last hour. “Far’s I can tell.”
“But he’s just sittin’ there,” she argued. “He ain’t readin’ or eatin’ even.”
This, the chef agreed, was a problem. Not that they had a lot of custom on days like today–if some boy wanted to order a cup of black Thanalan coffee and sit at a table and stare at the horizon for going on two and a half hours, who was he to argue?
“He looks a bit limp,” the chef finally said. “Prob’ly ent use t’the heat.”
The waitress folded her arms and frowned. It was a hot day, even for Drybone. The sky had that unbearable white haze to it, the air was perfectly still, and the heat acquired a physical weight that settled in over the course of a day until you could almost go mad with it.
“Hold on,” the chef whispered. “He’s movin’.”
They watched as the young duskwight shifted his chair, fractionally, two inches to the left and out of the creeping line of silent sunlight that was just beginning to encroach on the table. Once he’d finished, he resumed his silent staring out towards the aetheryte.
“Mebbe he’s waitin’ on someone,” the waitress said, still whispering.
The chef considered this. He didn’t have that air of quiet alertness that suggested waiting. The lad was simply slumped in his chair, so far he’d slid about halfway under the table, shoulders hunched. He’d drunk about half the coffee, but that was an hour ago, and he’d barely moved since.
“Dunno,” the chef finally said, wiping his hands on the faintly greasy apron. “But ‘e ain’t causin’ trouble, so just go ask the feller if he wants more coffee.”
“I did,” the Miqo’te waitress hissed, tail bushing up. “Twice. ‘e just shook ‘is ‘ead ‘an said, ‘No thank you.’“
“Well ask ‘im again,” the chef rumbled. “What am I payin’ you for anyways?”
Looking highly put out, the waitress approached the table.
“Get you another cuppa coffee sir?” she said, with all the cheer one finds on the wrong end of a firing squad.
The young dusk glanced up–his head didn’t actually move, but his violet eyes flickered a fraction in her direction. He hadn’t even smoked his damn cigarette for minutes, and there was a long ilm of ash at the tip where it hung between two long fingers.
“No thank you,” he said, quietly.