the vagabond

He pushed away the bowl of wet cement flakes drowning in milk with a circus fly on the porcelain rim ready to high dive. He complained to Olive and she shook her head in disbelief. They watched the fly flutter to the white ceiling. He saw the brown specks.
"What would you like instead?"
"Eggs. And toast." The rain pelted the diner window louder. They both looked towards the window. A vagabond in a floppy hat with rain rolling off it like a busted downspout was leaning to one side staring in, amazed at all that chrome. Counter edge, chair spindles, serving ledge with one order up between kitchen and cash register, Olive's name tag holder, shiny towering coffee urn. "And coffee."
"Black?" she asked sadly.
"Black," he replied, watching the man with water rolling off his brim. "You think he's hungry?"
"Yes."
He looked at Olive. He looked at the man and motioned. "I'll eat at that table over yonder. Bring the same. Same to same. And another fork."
The hat carefully placed on the peg was dripping on the black and white checkered floor even though the man wrung it like a washcloth and Olive shook it like a cocker spaniel after a bath. The man thanked her kindly.
He had four eggs, six slices of crunchless toast, two refills of coffee, black, and not once did he look up from the plate. He was in the habit of watching any food carefully. Olive, leaning on the back counter near the hot urn warming her slim pale hands, watched the benefactor, finishing breakfast long ago, unable to make out one-word conversation and vagabond nods, thoughtfully following the swirling rise from his cigarette, imagining it smoking down a high diving circus fly.