A Moment of Respite

It's a bit too loud and the music is obviously being streamed from a Best of '90's satellite station specializing in one hit wonders and annoying dance remixes. Marky Mark, Jesus Jones. There's no empty solo seat so he places his narrow metal clipboard on the massive communal re-purposed barnboard table surrounded by chrome and naugahyde rotating stools cemented to the ceramic tile. He has ten, maybe twenty, for a proper cup of coffee and this is his preferred haunt. A welcome anomaly in the slowly gentrifying hood, tucked in beside old peeler bars and run down taverns. Spread out around him is a mess of actor writer types, permastudents, with scripts deliberately scattered, silently entreating attention. Laptops and smartphones far outnumber the mugs and pastries. He adjusts his utility belt, places his cappuccino on the rough hewn plank, pulling his gun to the left so it clears the backrest. A sudden squawk erupts from his radio. Heads swivel towards him, curious, wary. He silences dispatch, lays the radio upside down in front of his notebook, feeling the public gaze shift away. Robinson conscientiously contains himself in a small private bubble and starts making notes. He can't discern the design in his crema; it's supposed to be something artful. A leaf? His mouth curls up tightly in the corner. Simple pleasures. Multiple stab wounds to the chest, neck and back resulting in massive blood loss at the scene. Pronounced dead on arrival. Coroner dispatched, awaiting arrival. He checks his log entries, confirming address, contact information. He finishes his coffee, grabs the radio and slides his belt back into position. The energy around the table shifts back to center, heads lift ever so slightly, shoulders drop and chatter resumes. He tosses a toonie in the Tip If You Love Cookie jar as he heads back to his squad car, sated.