The diner eats by himself, unaware of cruel fate's plans. He reads his books and takes notes with insouciance, utterly unaware that in two short hours his life will be changed forever. Two other patrons sit at a table nearby, nonchalantly playing a game of Scrabble, tragically ignorant of their impending doom. One possesses a puzzled expression, but it is in no way due to the terrible, catastrophic upheaval so close at hand.
Across the restaurant, as if to portend the coming horrors, a waiter drops a glass of water on the floor. The restaurant is momentarily silent. Do these doomed souls yet grasp their fate? Sadly, no—two other waiters quickly help sweep up the mess, and a naive patron offers some napkins to assist, as if such trifling aid could reverse the heretofore invisible chain of events leading to the sweeping, chaotic disaster so near its brutal dénouement.
Two hours brings us right to the precipice; standing in an ominous, gray drizzle with his fellow doomed souls, the diner chatters obliviously about a nearby statue, renowned—while there are still those to celebrate it, anyway—throughout the area. A cyclist swerves madly through the traffic, as if pursued by demons.
Something mysterious and unheard of is in store for these sad, tragic figures.