He eats lunch with no one else; this is so that he may write good notes from the books that he reads. Two folks at the place next to him play that game where you make words with wood tiles; one seems to be gripped in the throes of some strange thing that is hard to solve. On the far side of the room there is a crash; one of the men who waits on those who eat has dropped a glass on the floor. Two more rush to his aid, to help clean up the mess. A kind one gives them a cloth to help them out.
Two hours pass, and we find him with some friends, in the rain, where two big streets cross. They can't seem to jibe on the worth of a nigh piece of art which is well known in these parts. A man on a bike rides by, and he weaves with no clear aim in and out of the car lanes. There is a sense that some new thing will soon be.