Mr. Venti, whose glasses match the size of his coffee lids? Could be compensating? Could enjoy the style?
What on earth is he looking at/thinking about? He remains in the same position, emulating his statuesque rip-off of “Thinking Man,” shifting only to drink the coffee in front of his person. Seriously, this guy is not fucking moving! Who else is in the staring contest? Nobody is in front of him. Aside the coffee, there are no newspapers, no books, no pads, no pens… What is the meaning of his existence? Could he be contemplating that? Maybe dinner isn’t agreeing with him. Is he thinking, “Sorry hun/wife—insert name here—but your casserole gave me the shits again.” He should have first fed it to the dog—that blessed dog—checking to see if the it would consume it before any human had the right mind to do so.
That concerned grimace is hidden by a closed finger-fist over his mouth, emitting a few grunts to clear his throat of obstructing mucus—the mucus built up from smoking too damn much. Maybe it is mucus residue—brain residue—he doesn’t use his brain all too often, and so it leaks. He needs more caffeine, but I have not seen him take a sip from that venti who-knows-what.
He rises—the clamor of the chair scraping against the ground is nails to a chalk board—and he is one angry dude. The cup to be thrown away falls into the bin with a hollow clank. It was empty for that long (?)(!)? Huh… Hmm.
What was he doing? He was up to something. His thoughts were churning. Oh, man! He wants to shoot that wife of his. That bitch fucked up the casserole, and now there must be ramifications. It’ll just be him and the dog. Hell, he doesn’t need that rifle of his. No. He just needs a shovel and one swift swing to the head. She’ll be out. Then, he’ll be able to use that shovel to bury the incident—that God blessed shovel…