He felt as if he had leaned so hard into life he had gone completely around, only to land upright, dizzy and a bit confused. The tumble had been so quick, so disorienting, that he seemed to have suddenly popped into existence, seated right here in this diner, with a fully realized but unlived past. He recalled only bits and pieces of it, random snapshots or gifs, no audio, and not always in chronologic order. He wasn't even sure they were all... real. He couldn't tell if the memories were happy or sad, some disppointing, though there was a fond funny one. There was no theme, they seemed randomly collected. He chuckled even now thinking of the funny one, only to feel the ping of remorse remembering a disappointing one. He also felt hard ridden and put away wet for the remembering.

He sighed, took a sip of coffee realizing it had grown a bit cold and put it down with a hint of attitude. then gave it a push as if to tell it to fuck off, coming to a clinking stop against the plate with the remnants of pie. "I do like pie," he thought with a agreeable smirk. He didn't need something harder, he was already free floating mentally. Liquor would just make it hard to walk and more likely he'd piss himself. He leaned back hard into the seat and slumped with a sigh, adjusting his fedora to air out his forehead, realizing he hadn't taken it off, and stared at the piercing light overhead spotlight wanting the temproary blindness to isolate him from his thoughts.  

He could tell you his story; where he was born, grew up, and with some accuracy where he'd been and when he'd been there. But if he was being honest, he really didn't remember much of what had happened, though almost all of it was working. He kinda felt like he had wasted his life. He existed to work. He wasn't brain damaged, he didn't have memory loss. He had never been that interested in whatever was happening, though in the moment he might have seemed to be. ADHD. Maybe he had that. That could do that... you live a life you aren't really ever present for. For a man his age he didn't feel he had many memories. A random thought interrupts, "apparently not too old to work, lord knows, that retirement age was more of a carrot on a stick. Rich men in Washington keeping the loot for themselves and their friends, were sure to keep making it so the old and tired could keep them rich before they would get something for nothing."  There just never seemed to be enough money to put something away, it all went to what life was left when he wasn't working. He stared at the coffee, lowering his standards a bit and thinking maybe it wasn't all that cold.

He wasn't the one who could tell you who he was, not sure he quite knew what that even meant. Point of fact, there really wasn't anyone who knew him very well at all. For a moment he felt kinda lonely for that. Sure, his wife had been with him over 30 years, she could describe his outward demeanor, chonkly cut figure, what he liked and what annoyed him, but she didn't really know him, and wasn't really interested enough to ask. And he didn't care enough to tell her, and if he did, he didn't know what he would say. This felt a bit odd. He had no idea what his kids thought of him, nor people who "knew" him. He didn't share much, they didn't ask. Everyone just... worked, and lived there own lives. He wondered if this meant he didn't really exist after all? Was this going to turn into some "Its a Wonderful Life" montage, where he was shown a world without him? Meh... the world had pretty much been without him as it was. All. He. Did. Was. Work. Even his few hobbies felt like work. He had no close friends, didn't feel he had the energy that seemed to need poured into it, and he preferred being alone. Mostly. What would change? This line of thinking seemed despondent, he thought, but he didn't feel depsondent. A little anxious, because he always was a little anxious for feeling a bit vulnerable at every turn, but not depsondent. He didn't dwell long enough in introspection to be despondent, just these moments. He decided he himself did not know himself well. He wasn't interested enough to give it much more thought.

He got the waitresse's eye with a nod and a gesture, she moved the keys on the register, there was zipping of the mirco-printer, then she brought the receipt over, to which he added his card with a quick smile without it leaving her hand. With a smile she nodded and went back to the register, and he began pushing the coffee cup around without any sense of purpose. She came back and seeming not to want to enter his thoughtful space as a courtesy, slid the reciept and card over. He didn't even look at it, tipped well, signed it and put the coffee cup on top of it, slipping the card back into his wallet in a mindless movement, not even able to recall he had done so. As he stood she offered a kind "Good night!" and he smiled and nodded, gathered up his coat throwing it on in one swift motion, all while walking to the door and making his way out into the cold air of a crisp late fall evening.

The bullet hit him square in the chest.