Work in Progress continued

I started at the bathroom; a quick glance in the mirror told me a shower was more than necessary, if for no reason other than to tame the mangled mass of hair on my head. I hoped conditioner would be enough; the dark blonde waves were dangerously close to making the transition into genuine dreadlocks. I started the water, hotter than most people can stand for more than a few seconds, and turned on the radio as loud as it would go. Sometimes the best way to prepare myself for an outing into the general public was to enjoy, if only for a few moments, the lack of anyone's thoughts but my own.
Red-skinned and still steaming, I reluctantly exited the shower after fifteen short minutes and set to work on my hair. The conditioner had done some of the job, but it was strictly up to me to finish it. I brushed, gently as I could, wincing at every snapping sound, silently mourning the loss of each strand that was ripped from my scalp. I could only hope the damage wasn't as bad as it seemed, but I decided to forgo the blow drying anyway, settling instead for a bit of gel that would make the "wet curls" look slightly more socially acceptable. Finally, after a good deal of fussing and worrying over what to wear, I found myself ready to go, with just enough time to stop in to Reynold's, the cafe between my home and work, to get coffee and the best breakfast offered on my side of town.
Like anything else that involved my leaving the house, Reynold's was a special kind of treat. I hadn't been looking for it when I first found it, only looking for a place where I could duck in to escape the unexpected cascades of people coming down the sidewalk towards me. I was frantic, frazzled, new to the city and unaware of the rush that came through at certain points in the day. I was in no condition at the time to be assaulted by the loud and obnoxious thoughts of twenty or thirty odd people, so I quickly stepped into Reynold's, the first open door I saw.
It was mercifully deserted, save for a silver-haired woman behind the counter and a stocky lumberjack of a man at a corner booth, bent over a plate of eggs and sausage. I must have looked even worse for the wear than I felt.
"Are you okay, hon?" the lady behind the counter asked, waving a gray dishrag in my direction. "You look like you've seen a ghost! Come on, sit yourself down and we'll get you all fixed up." I wasn't expecting any kind of reaction to my entrance, but I welcomed hers, and followed her advice without thinking. I dropped down on a stool at the counter and tried my hardest to block out whatever I heard, but I quickly realized there was nothing to block. Lorraine was as kind and honest a woman as you'd ever meet, and very rarely did anything go through her head that wasn't already coming out of her mouth.
"What'll it be, darlin'?"
I'd smiled, for the first time in the two weeks since I'd moved there, and answered, "Coffee. Please!" She had nodded and set about getting it for me, never prying, never even so much as thinking a bad word about me. She'd been the best friend I'd had here ever since.
I walked into Reynold's a little after eight, with enough time for breakfast and a few words with Lori before I had to head on my way. Business had picked up considerably in the short time I had lived there, whether it was word of mouth or just higher population, I couldn't tell. But Lori still greeted me with her same smile whenever I walked in the door. I took my place in line behind three others, and glanced around the dining room.
It was much the same as the first time I had entered, with the exception of all of the additional customers. The stocky lumberjack man, I had realized, was a staple there much as I was. He was a widower, and came to Reynold's for breakfast most mornings because he and his wife had done so when she was alive. I had never had the courage to speak to him, but some days I wished I could, just to see if I had a chance of brightening his day. There were a few older women sitting at a table on the other side, sipping coffee and orange juice and plucking pieces of fruit out of a bowl while they caught each other up on every bit of gossip they'd heard in their respective circles. And then-
Then there was a newbie. Someone I had never seen in the cafe before, never seen around town. He was young, most likely close to my age but with a somewhat hardened expression that added extra years to his face. He looked dressed to be somewhere, but seemed in no hurry to get wherever he was going. He was too busy looking at me.
In any other situation like this, both parties, upon meeting eyes, would quickly shift to something else in the room and act as though they were never looking in the first place. But he didn't. He continued to look at me, holding my gaze and slightly screwing up his face as if to try to remember if he'd seen me before. I certainly didn't recognize him. I broke the stare, choosing instead to look down at my feet as if there were something positively riveting resting on the top of my shoes. But I could feel his eyes still on me. I tried desperately not to look back up, but the compulsion and curiosity won out and I found myself looking back in his direction again. He was still looking but now, slowly, a smile was creeping onto his face. Today was not the day for this, I told myself, and looked back towards the counter, staring at the menu on the wall that I'd memorized over a year ago. Two people ahead of me moved forward in the line, and I stepped up to close the gap.