The bell above the door chimed as another patron pushed through the entrance of the unassuming diner.
The aroma of freshly brewed coffee and sizzling bacon greeted him, a respite from the cold air outside. The Guardian glanced though the menu, taking in the appearance of the newcomer, studying his movements as he made himself comfortable amid the worn red vinyl booths lining the walls. Not his man.
It's early morning and the diner is still quiet, save for the occasional clattering of dishes from the kitchen and the low murmur of conversation from the few patrons scattered about. He sits in the back, studying the laminated menu from the table, more out of habit than necessity.
As he scanned the familiar options, his eyes flicked again to the door. He's waiting for someone, his fingers drum a beat on the tabletop, his other hand fidgeting with the salt shaker. Anticipation filled his thoughts.