He stared at the coffee stained ring on the wood grain of the table and moved his fingers over it, tracing its outline. The café was alive with conversation, couples and friends peppered around, hunched over their drinks and cakes eagerly telling stories and relaying recent events. He was alone at his table and awaiting no one. He came here every morning; after he walked his dog, watched the morning news report and tendered to his houseplants. He liked the atmosphere, the way in which he melted into the fabric of the place, invisible to the other patrons. The general hum of voices was accompanied by the whir of the overactive coffee machine and the sounds of the staff busying themselves with orders. He felt warm and tranquil as he let himself relax into his chair. He could sense the perfume from the woman behind him, a light musky fragrance and he sunk deeper into a day dream, imagining where her day would lead, feeling an overwhelming sense of anonymity and calm. He kept the scent of her perfume in his mind for the rest of the day.