Philip - Mainlander

She pointed. In the corner booth sat a large man in a damp trench coat, spooning soup into his mouth with the mechanical sadness of someone whose wife had just left him. His name was Frank. Philip knew this because Frank came every night and wept softly into his minestrone.

Philip returned to the counter. Wren raised an eyebrow. philip mainlander

The problem was, no one ever saw him. Not the waitress, Della, who refilled his untouched cup every morning. Not the cook, Big Sal, who sometimes slid a cold plate of eggs in his direction out of pity for “the regular who never eats.” Not even the stray tabby cat that napped by the radiator, though it did twitch an ear his way now and then. She pointed

She finished her shake, stood up, and flickered—just once—like a bad lightbulb. Then she was gone. Philip knew this because Frank came every night

“Who are you?” Philip asked.