Gone fission, be back later

A lonely man sits alone at a table, sipping his iced tea, and staring at the menu. He sets the menu down, hands in his lap, and lets his head slowly tilt from side to side, eyes downcast. His wife has just died the month before, and he still grieves.

Or something like that.

This man walks into the restaurant every Monday and Wednesday morning without fail. He's blonde, looks in his mid twenties, dresses always in greys and blacks, and often carries a study bible. He sits alone, has no usual table, and orders something different everytime (the latter two traits very strange for regular customers). Active imagination being what it is, several scenarios push their way into my mind about why he's here so often alone. Among my favorites: the aforementioned death of his wife, he seeking to drown his sorrows in lasagna; a former man of the cloth excommunicated from the Church, a la The Night of the Iguana; or he's Batman.

Yesterday, he showed up for dinner. Dinner. On a Tuesday. It was like watching a dog walk on its hind legs. The enitre time he sat at his table (eating Chicken Capone this time), I kept thinking of ways to initiate conversation; I had to meet this guy. Upon asking the other waiters, I discovered that no one else had ever noticed him come in once. Being alone almost makes you invisible.

On his way out, he asks me for a To Go menu, and I plunge ahead, asking him (quite bluntly, acutally) why he always comes Mon. and Wed. mornings, why he always comes alone, and why he's here tonight. He looked at me, mildly self-conscious, and replied:

"I'm a scientist from Detroit, working on a nuclear fission research project at [the University I go to]. I'll be in town for another week, and then I'm off. This place has the best food in town."

He then gave me a lopsided grin, and exited. I think I may be in love with him.