The Reflection

He sat down at one of the tables facing East 41 Street, popped the lid off his coffee, and lit a cigarette. 

"Ain't life fuckin' grand," he thought, his face briefly lit up in an orange reflection behind his hand, then emerging behind a thick plume of rich tobacco smoke. He stared beyond the sea of suits and dresses, topcoats and tote-bags, the incessant click-clacking of expensively cobbled footwear. He flicked some ash onto the sidewalk, watching the gray snowflakes disintegrate into the morning commute hustling by him. 

He knew he shouldn't have come down here, and now it was being thrown in his face. He had helped move her into her new apartment, gone out of his way to make her comfortable, tried to quell some of the nervous excitement that comes with a new start, but why?

"God, I'm a such a fuckin' moron," he said to himself. "You should've let it go naturally. Just ended it when she got the job instead of trying to manipulate everything and make it perfect. You both knew it wasn't going to work. Now you're sitting on a cast-iron chair thinking about the eight-hour trek back home while she gets ready for the first day of her new life. Nice job, asshole."

The long, sustained blast of a trumpet from the cafe speakers grabbed his attention. A slow, deliberate note, which gave way to the piano, bass, and accompanying horn section in a playful exchange. He knew the song: The Stolen Moment by Eddie 'Lockjaw' Davis. He had first heard it freshman year of college. Musicology 124: The Evolution of Jazz, the easiest class of that semester. Probably the most beneficial too, since it helped him bed numerous co-eds along with a well-timed joint concluding the night's debaucheries. He thought about some of those girls. Women now; some with a husband, kids, responsibility. 

He stood up and stomped on the soggy filter, rubbing it into the sidewalk; the last disgusting reminisce of his latest failure. He checked his watch and headed Northeast towards Grand Central.