The books on the table

Yesterday afternoon, an hour or so before closing, a man at Old School Bagel Cafe, here in Tulsa, Oklahoma, sat in a booth by himself. Late 20s, thin, stubble, great complexion, short black, shiny, thinning hair, he was calm, scribbling in a tiny notebook, the kind New York Review of Books gives out free with paid subscriptions, only instead of red, his was black. On the table, as well, one larger notebook, two Qur'ans, a plastic cup of water and a leather briefcase. His writing was smooth, almost robotic--purposeful, yet not rushed. One of the holy books was open. He didn't drink the water, but he must have at some point, for it was only a third full. Was I the only one who noticed? Was there anything to notice? I saw the owner of the shop, laughing with three others, at another booth near the window. We're friends. He looked in my direction. He smiled at me; I smiled back. We were all smiling. The man finished writing and stood up, walked to the briefcase--his fingers reaching deep inside. They lingered. He was looking for something inside one compartment, then inside another, and couldn't find it--or maybe he had. He zipped each section closed. He picked up the two Qur'ans, the small notebook, the bigger notebook, his water cup, the briefcase, and went to the cash register, but first made his way to the area where the coffee and soda machines and condiments were located. I could feel him directly behind me. What was he doing? What was he doing? I didn't turn around. I wondered if a gun, in fact, sounds like a firecracker, wondered about the noise of repeated pops, about hearing declarations, pronouncements, explosions, screams. What does blood sound like? What does a blast feel like? My father, who was eating a croissant with cream cheese, was with me. He was talking about his new sweatpants. I waited. For what, I don't know. Eventually, I could see the man walk towards the exit. The owner was still laughing, my father was still eating. The man stopped. He looked back at everything; he looked back at nothing. Others were coming in. He held open the door. I could see more clearly now. They weren't Qur'ans; they were bibles.