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The coffee was incredibly cold. Shockingly so, even for the Miss Worcester Diner, the little tin trailer near the underpass, slightly grimey, definitely greasy.
Where they tended to serve cold coffee. Even when you'd ordered a Coke. Oh, he hoped that wasn't a trademark infringement.
But that was ridiculous, you couldn't trademark thoughts. Even if you wound up writing it down in a diary, or journal, he supposed; only men like Boswell wrote diaries, and that was back in the 17th century, men these days wrote in journals. Look at Emerson. And Thoreau. Though, arguably (not much of an argument, to be honest), neither of those two counted as 'these days', really. And men of Boswell's era writing in diaries could be excused for not knowing any better.
Either way, maybe he should mentally note that Coke is a trademarked entity, and his preceding thought should not be construed as infringement upon the use of that word, nor should he take any responsiblity for the effects and/or consequences of the use of the word in the context in which he used it. Which, to be honest, he was having a difficult time remembering, and couldn't honestly say with any degree of certainty whether or not he'd thought it sarcastically or in a meanspirited manner. And now that he thought of it, the Miss Worcester Diner served Pepsi, not Coke.
Damn, and the coffee was cold again. And no amount of sugar could get rid of that slightly metallic taste to the coffee, until you found your coffee suddenly had a crunchy texture from the amount of sugar you had poking above the surface of the liquid-like stuff in the cup.

And he suddenly saw himself, hunched over a coffee in the little Miss Worcester Diner on Southbridge Street, Time yodelling along without him, leaving him there, years and years down into the future, sitting at the same table with the dodgy seat whose springs always seemed about to burst, no matter where he sat, and it was only a matter of time before he was impaled at his cold coffee by a resigned spring, tired of being sat upon with scant recompense. Sitting there, nursing his crunchy coffee, occasionally half-flirting with the waitresses that would wander by, but not so they or he would know it, really, sitting there, maybe with a paper, more often than not without.
The years bursting past like the wind outside in the wake of cars above on 290, until one day, in the future, be it near or far, he saw himself standing in a bright yellow tshirt, clogs, carrying an Aeolian Harp and dancing on the table, adroitly around his coffee, now cold, and crunchy, his socks, elastic now gone, falling down around his ankles, spittle flying from his mouth occasionally (and uncouthly, he admitted) as he burst out his own rendition of songs from his favourite Frank and Walters album (Grand Parade) as some of the plaster from the tiles rained down silently on his performance from the ceiling and a grand, glorious hush fell over the occupants at their cups of various liquids, himself calling out, in between songs, "Shake, baby, shake," and shouting at his imaginary dog, Mac, to sit, damnit, sit, and stop begging until finally someone saw fit to haul him off and put him somewhere safe, quiet, and warm. Like the Bahamas.

Now that he thought of it, the table probably wouldn't hold his weight.
He sighed and sipped from his shockingly cold coffee.

disclaimer:
No offense whatsoever meant to the Miss Worcester Diner, trademarked or not, and we urge you to pop round if you happen to disembark in Worcester, MA at the bus station. Tell them we sent you.

Their tables, by the way, probably won't hold your weight, either.