Nicolas Martin stared into his half-filled coffee cup.  He was trying to Figure Things Out.  

Perhaps it was because he was two pots beyond his usual limit, but as he sat alone at his table he felt his skin crawl with paranoia.  He fought the urge to look over his shoulder, but only because he’d wrangled a table against the wall.

The restaurant had a reputation for bringing your food almost before you’d finished ordering it.  Nick wasn’t sure about that; his toast had arrived at the end of his meal despite the repeated assurances that it was “coming right out.”

Whatever.

When his carafe of coffee was empty, he slid it to the edge of the table and they eventually brought him another. Now he had his notebook open to a page partially filled with his cryptic notes in crabbed handwriting.  Not that he’d written anything of importance (or, more importantly, that could get him into trouble with Calvin), but it kept the staff from eying him too frequently.

As his thoughts free-associated at warp speed, Nick glanced at the other patrons.

A married couple ate in complete silence across from one another.  A group of friends debated the casting of the latest Hollywood blockbuster.  Another table argued over whether the waffles were Belgian or Belgium.  A man of indeterminate age drank coffee and gazed dotingly at a teenager who ate as all growing boys did: voraciously.

Some aspect of the latter gave him pause, and Nick smiled as he watched them interact.  The man had high cheekbones and long, blonde hair.  He moved with an easy grace, every gesture poetic without wasted motion.  The boy with him had a dark, unruly mane in need of trimming.  The scattering of scruff along his jaw and upper lip said he wasn’t as young as all that, after all.

He found himself pondering their relationship for no other reason than to pass the time.  Friends? Lovers? The boy looked up and laughed at some quiet comment from the blonde man, and Nick saw that they shared the same eyes: a light brown that some might call amber, so full of life and joy that he couldn’t help chuckling a bit as well.  

Relatives, then.

Using his pen as a bookmark, Nick slipped from his seat and headed just around the corner to deal with his over-consumption of coffee.  When he returned, his carafe had been refilled yet again, and everything seemed as appallingly normal as before.  He watched the blonde man settle his bill and head out the glass door emblazoned with a stylized fork, his not-so-young charge at his side.

Smiling again, he opened his notebook and reached to refill his cup.  His hand stopped two centimeters from the carafe, trembling.

There on the page, in a flowing, elegant hand, someone had written:

                            Don't stop looking.