He watched a young man seated out on the curb, his feet on the street, his head lifted, staring directly into the cars and even the people passing by.  As if, with each shifting gaze, the young man expected to see, to have something compelling revealed to him.  What would that be were he to turn around and see him watching him from the cafe’s lone sidewalk table?  What would he make of the one leg draped over the other, and, upon them, the one hand holding onto the other?  Would he see a grown man who even over a coffee keeps a regal posture?  Would the posture suggest a man who lives above the cares of the world?  Would the young man then think him otherworldly, irrelevant, and veer his gaze?  If he did, he said to himself, the young man would miss out on the only thing true.  He would not get to notice the postcard resting on the table.  Or how, like him, the grown man was using the strength of a posture to keep from falling to pieces.