cafe2

    On the following day at noon, Roger cheerfully walked into the caf�s kitchen. He whistled as he hung up his coat and put on his name tag.
     He went about the cafe busily, taking orders and chatting with the usual customers.
     One of the caf�s regulars, an elderly man named Mr. McCallister, solemnly motioned Roger over to him.
     �Yes, Mr. McCallister?� said Roger as he approached, �May I take your order?�
     �Yes, Roger,� replied Mr. McCallister, �But that�s not why I called you over.�
     �Oh?�
     �I wanted to show you an item I found the morning newspaper . . . � Mr. McCallister searched for the correct page and Roger smiled. That was Mr. McCallister all over! He always had some article of interest in the newspaper to show.
     He finally found what he was looking for and pointed it out to Roger. �A jogger found a body in the river this morning,� Mr. McCallister explained as Roger scanned the article. �They still haven�t found out who the dead man is. He might have been a businessman, though . . . �
     As Mr. McCallister rattled off more information, Roger began to think of the lone man who had kept him from going home on the previous night.
     �...and there were no signs of a struggle, so they think it must have been a suicide.�
     �Yes, it must have been.�
     �It�s a pity, isn�t it, Roger?�
     �Yes, sir. It certainly is.�
     �It makes you wonder what this world is coming to,� he shook his head sadly and folded his paper, �But I just wonder what would have possessed a perfectly healthy young man to take his own life?�
     �I don�t know, Mr. M., I just don�t know,� Roger shook his head, then smiled and took out his pen, �Now, about that order?�
     �Oh, yes!� laughed Mr. McCallister, �Where is my mind today? I�d like an extra hot cup of coffee. Black as usual.�
     �All right! I�ll get it right away!�
     The day went on the same as it always goes, with nothing too out of the ordinary going on. That evening, when the sun had set and the people became scarce, Roger began to think of the mysterious young man again.
     He walked to the window and looked out for a few minutes. Then he laughed at himself, and, turning, tripped over the wastebasket. A piece of wadded up paper fell out. Roger suddenly remembered crumpling it up and throwing it away. Curiously, he smoothed it out. It was a letter written on pink, rose scented stationary in a woman�s delicate handwriting.
     Roger sat down at a table and read the letter to himself:

�Dear Alexander,
I�m sorry, but I can�t ever see you again. Please forget me and try to move on. I know now that I always loved and will continue to love Trevor. Don�t try to see me again. It just won�t work out. Please understand why I can�t even deliver this letter to you in person and am sending a messenger. Please forgive me.
--Elizabeth�

     Roger read over the letter a second time and shook his head sadly. The messenger must have come while he was in the kitchen talking to his wife. Quickly, Roger pieced the puzzle together. The young man, who he assumed was Alexander, must have left in a daze after reading this letter. With a sinking heart, Roger realized that he had probably been the last person to see the unfortunate young man alive. He looked toward the kitchen and wondered if he should call the police and turn in the letter so as to identify the dead man. Roger shook his head at the thought. Did it really matter? He was dead and could no longer be helped.
     As Roger shredded the letter, he was thinking about what a cruel place the world is. Hearts were broken every day. People were used. People broke down. Some of them became murderers. Others went insane. Most committed suicide. But in the end, they all lost hope.
     As Roger locked up the caf� later on that night, his thoughts of the poor young man, who had been alive twenty-four hours earlier, ceased. It was unimportant. What really mattered was getting home to his sweet and lovely wife.