Another Beautiful Morning

 "The young worry about being noticed. The old learn the value of being ignored."

He'd grown to enjoy mornings. He enjoyed the still, soft silence - aside from the ever-present hum of his tinnitus. Mornings had always been stressful. Rush rush rush! Rush to school! Rush to work! Rush to this appointment or that one. What's going to go wrong today? He'd never stopped to think 'what might go right today?'

Mornings were now an excellent time for contemplation - prayer even. Even in the worst weather, he'd often look out the window and thank the Lord for another beautiful day. Another chance, another opportunity. 

He'd lost most of the hearing in his right ear. He'd lost most of the vision in his left eye. A stroke robbed him of many abilities. He had trouble walking. He tripped a lot. He often dropped things. He had a hard time remembering words. He had stomach problems. His breathing was slowly becoming an issue.

Yet, he remained oddly positive.

Most days.

His career long gone, he'd had to look to darker places for work. A lifetime surrounded by shady types, he knew the work was out there, and how and where to find it.

No one would ever suspect someone like him - a broken-down old man - to be a hitman.

He'd never slept well. Not as a kid, not even as a teenager. His adult years were spent gobbling down one sleeping pill after another, usually chased with some half-decent bourbon. Now, he slept easily. Sometimes almost too easily. It was handy for his work. His micro naps often left him more refreshed than a good night's sleep ever did. He was energized.

Sure, he moved slowly. But what did that matter knowing no one paid attention?

It was just another lovely, quiet morning. 7:41am, the early spring sun was making its way over the trees. A few clouds in the sky. Could be rain, or it could all blow over. 

He really liked days like this.

He dressed slowly. Took his morning handful of medications and donned his old blue windbreaker and made his way to the bus stop. He double-checked. Yep, his gun was in its holster. He had a feeling he'd need it today.

He caught the #2 bus into town. He made chitchat with the driver as he embarked. He sat on one of the front seats - reserved for the old and infirm. He looked around at the other riders.

Not many this morning. A few folks heading into work. A young lady - maybe 19 - with an odd-colored hairdo (a hair DON'T in his opinion) gave him a casual stare. He knew that look too well. It was a look that begged 'God, please don't let me end up a useless old person like that'. He smiled at her. It broke her stare - he knew it would. Worked every time. Young people try to avoid old farts if they can. They don't like the reminder that they're seeing the future.

---

He got off the bus a block before the coffee shop and walked the rest of the way. The clouds were thickening. April. Typical. The damp worked its way into his joints, but he was used to that.

He passed the usual morning people, all of them hurrying toward some office somewhere. Accountants. Customer service. Middle management. People who spent their lives in climate control and thought that counted as hardship. The important ones drove.

A few sidewalk cases were already in position, propped against storefronts with cardboard signs: HOMELESS. NEED MONEY FOR FOOD. ANYTHING HELPS.

He didn’t slow down.

Get a fuckin’ job, he thought.

Life had beaten him half to death and he was still standing. Crooked. Slow. Leaking from one end or another - but standing. Working, too. Better than most.

The coffee shop wasn’t crowded yet. Mostly people grabbing something to go. Coffee. Muffin. Pastry. Enough caffeine and sugar to drag themselves to the first break in a day they already hated.

He stepped inside, letting the door ease shut behind him.

Warm air. Burnt espresso. Damp coats. Cheap perfume.

He paused just inside the door, letting his eyes adjust. He didn't scan the room like a younger man might. No quick movements. No nervous searching.

He just looked.

Old habits.

When he was a kid, he learned early how to spot them. The men everyone pretended not to notice. The ones who looked like retired plumbers or widowed grandfathers, sitting quietly at the edge of things.

Ordinary.

Too ordinary.

Older clothes. Never flashy, but never quite right either. Out of style by ten or fifteen years. Worn, but not worn out. Shoes polished, but not new. Always careful. Always deliberate.

And there was always something.

A watch too heavy for the wrist that wore it.

A pinky ring.

Eyeglasses that looked more suited to a retired pimp than a pensioner.

Just enough to tell you they weren't what they seemed.

He saw him immediately.

Corner table. Back to the wall.

Of course.

Dark blue Member's Only jacket. Beige slacks. The kind of shoes you only found in old shoe stores that still had fluorescent lights from 1978. Gray hair combed straight back. No nonsense. No vanity.

The glasses gave him away.

Thick frames. Slight tint. Not quite sunglasses. Not quite reading glasses. The kind of glasses that watched instead of helped you see.

And the watch.

Too big.

Too heavy.

The kind of watch that suggested a man who didn’t care about time - only about who controlled it.

He was already drinking coffee.

Black.

Of course.

The old man felt something that might have been respect.

He moved slowly toward the counter, ordered coffee he didn’t really want so much as need, and waited while the girl behind the counter moved too quickly for that early in the morning. Young. Efficient. Already tired. He didn't look again.

No need.

Men like that knew when they were being watched.

And men like that also knew when they weren't.

He took the cup with both hands, nodded his thanks, and turned.

He didn’t look toward the corner.

Not yet.

Instead, he shuffled past two empty tables, then stopped at one just beside him. Close enough to hear. Far enough not to look deliberate.

He sat slowly, easing himself down like a man whose joints argued with gravity.

Someone had left a newspaper folded neatly on the table. He pulled it toward him and opened it halfway. Local section. Nothing that mattered.

He read without reading.

The corner of his vision did the work.

Black coffee.

Left-handed.

Watch on the right wrist.

Shoes clean despite the damp sidewalks.

Professional.

A minute passed.

Two old men.

Coffee.

Silence.

Invisible.

He unfolded the newspaper and continued pretending to read.

Mr. Glasses spoke without turning.

“Still getting around?”

“Most days.”

“That so?”

A pause. Cups lifted. Set down.

“I got a little something,” Mr. Glasses said. “If you're up to it.”

He turned a page.

“Depends.”

“Ground floor.”

“That helps.”

“Quiet place.”

“Better.”

Another pause.

Two old men. Coffee. Rustling paper.

“Walk far?” he asked.

“Couple blocks.”

He nodded.

That was manageable.

“Keep the lights on?” he asked.

Mr. Glasses gave a soft chuckle.

“Keep the lights on...and maybe fix the roof.”

That meant very good.

He shifted slightly in his chair, as if settling in.

“Doctor says I should stay active.”

“Mine too.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

Then Mr. Glasses added quietly:

“Don’t want to stiffen up.”

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s when things start going bad.”

Mr. Glasses finished his coffee, stood slowly, and set the envelope down as he passed.

“Weather’s turning,” he muttered.

He didn’t look up.

“Yeah,” he said. “Feels like it.”

The door opened. Closed.

He counted slowly. Folded the paper. Slid the envelope inside.

Outside, the sky had darkened a shade.

He took a sip of his coffee.

Still warm.

Still a beautiful morning.

copyright notice © 2026 Michael C. Metzger

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