Blessed is the man who listens to me, watching daily at my doors, waiting at my doorway (Proverbs 8:34).

"A warm-up on your coffee, sir?" The waitress asks with a hint of encouragement in her voice.

The old man smiles and raises his eyebrows, wordlessly accepting her offer.  After she pours the coffee, he cups his hands around the mug's ceramic sides and directs his eyes to the curling columns of steam rising off the top.  The waitress watches him watching the coffee for a brief moment and then says, "That oughtta warm ya right up."  But there is no conversation in the old man, and the waitress returns to her post behind the long formica counter.

Business is slow at the diner this morning, so when the bell above the doorway jangles, signalling the arrival of a new customer, everyone's attention shifts towards the door.  The old man, seated in the booth nearest the entrance and positioned with his face towards the doorway, is the first to look up and the first to look away when he sees that it's just a newspaper delivery.  His posture suggests expectance but not impatience or agitation.  He sips his coffee carefully, while the waitress accepts the newspaper from the delivery-person and the two men in beards and ballcaps return to their conversation at the far end of the counter.  After a brief exchange of pleasantries the delivery-person goes back through the jangly doorway, and the waitress falls into conversation with the cook, standing on the other side of a half-wall separating the diner from the kitchen.

The old man makes no move for the freshly-delivered newspaper.  He has no breakfast to occupy his attention.  He does not twiddle his thumbs or fidget in any way.  He just watches the doorway in front of him and waits.  Once every minute or two, he takes a very small sip from the coffee in front of him.  Whenever the bell above the doorway sings its song, he looks up.  Otherwise, he is entirely occupied by his coffee and his own private thoughts.

Hours later, the diner has filled out considerably.  Almost every table is filled with people eating breakfast, drinking coffee, telling stories, and laughing.  The waitress has her hands full taking orders, refilling coffee mugs, and running the cash register.  The cook works quickly in the kitchen, in a cloud of smoke and steam, dozens of eggs and pices of bacon sizzling and snapping on the large griddle in front of him.  The old man, however, continues to wait by the doorway.  He continues to diligently monitor the door anytime someone exits or enters.  Some of the other regulars smile or wave or offer a friendly salutation as they pass by his table.  He responds with warmth and friendliness, though employing a remarkable economy of words and gestures.  Every so often, the waitress makes a point to swing by his table and ask if she can do anything for him.  She does not demonstrate any annoyance at his inactivity, despite the fact that it means less tables available for other customers, other tippers.  If anything, her demeanor towards the old man is more gentle, more kind, and more friendly than her interaction with any of the other regulars or visitors.

A young man sitting at the counter, near the cash register, watches the old man watching the door for several minutes, while sipping his own cup of coffee.  He's not one of the regulars, but he comes often enough to notice that the old man is something of an institution at the diner.  He's always sitting in the same booth, always facing the same direction, towards the doorway.  And he always has a cup of coffee, half-full, sitting in front of him while he watches the doorway.  But the young man has never been able to determine what the real story might be.  He's got his theories -- ranging from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder to the grief and loneliness following the death of a treasured spouse -- but he's never dared to go further than theories.  This morning, however, he asks the waitress, "Hey, I've been coming off-and-on for awhile, and I notice that that elderly gentleman is always watching the door.  Do you know why?  Do you know who or what he's expecting?"

"Mr. Lerling?" she replies, while ringing up an order on the cash register.  "Oh yeah, he's waiting for his lady-friend."

"Really?" says the young man.  "I've never seen a lady-friend."

"Oh yeah, she comes every day, too.  Sometimes early in the morning, sometimes not until closer to lunch-time.  But as long as he waits, she always shows up.  He's a very patient man."

"I figured that much," says the young man.

"They always seem to have such a lovely time, when she gets here," says the waitress.  "And they're great tippers."

"Hmm.  Interesting.  Well, could I get my check now, too?  I've got to get going."

The young man gathers his coat and pulls a wallet out of his back pocket.  The waitress smiles and places the hand-written check on the countertop in front of him.  He pays, drops a dollar for his tip, and walks towards the door.  While passing the old man, he nods in greeting.  The old man nods back.  The door rings shut behind the young man as he exits.  The old man looks down at his coffee again and takes another sip.  And then the bell jangles again.  The old man looks up towards the doorway, straightens in his seat, puts down his coffee, and smiles a million-dollar smile.