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He consumes barely a morsel for lunch, in something approaching solitude, reading a book—not without a slight hunch—and jotting perhaps a note or two in a notebook. At a table not at all far from him, no more than two people are playing Scrabble, with one displaying perhaps the slightest trace of puzzlement on his face. Across the restaurant, a humble waiter allows a glass of water to drop the tiny distance to the floor, where it breaks into a merely uncountable number of shards. One of the patrons, betraying a hint of charity, offers some napkins which are then used to clean up no small part of the mess.
No more than two hours pass, as our protagonist finds himself at the corner of two minor Seattle streets. He is standing in a slight drizzle with some acquaintances, as they engage in no small amount of discourse on a statue of no little renown in these admittedly remote parts. A bicyclist rides by in something less than an orderly fashion. Some trivial new event may occur soon.