Benioff Imitation

He entered the coffee shop on West 29th completely stoic, and as he pushed through the swinging glass door, the bells jingled. It seemed a cheerful entrance for such a bleak expression.
I notice him after feeling the breeze as the door swung open, chilling me just enough to remind me that it was January, and that the circumstance of our meeting must have been somber. I eagerly flagged him over, waving my winter hat. He conceded without changing his expression. Although Wes was never the type to let on too much about how he was feeling, he seemed especially cold and detached, his face blank from what I judged to be exhaustion.
“Hey,” I said to him. “What's going on? I haven't been able to get a hold of you lately.”
He collapses into the booth, shrugs with his whole body, and glances down at a list of the available lattes and flavored coffees. The chocolate pastries, fresh fruit and breakfast options were nothing but another novelty to scoff at. The waitress came by, her plastic smile seeming plastered on a little bit too intentionally for her to not have the inevitable tip in mind.
“What can I get for you?” she chirped, her little pony-tail bouncing around as she spoke.
“Coffee,” he said with no inflection, never looking up from the menu.
“Do you want a flavor shot? We have peppermint, gingerbread, hazelnut, raspberry...we also have some really yummy seasonal creamers and this new kind of sweetener, if you--”
“Give it to me black,” he cut her off coldly. She walked away, certainly feeling that her battle had been already lost.
“You'll feel better if you just talk about it,” I assured him—my futile attempt at coaxing the clandestine information from his hypothetical death grip. He stared blankly at me, the bags under his eyes pronounced, his lips chapped—he was surrounded by a sallow haze. He personified the drudgery of winter that seemed would never subside.
“What happened,” I demanded, banging my fist on the table for emphasis.
He finally looked up at me, with a strange detachment and said, “use your imagination.”

* * * * *
She had never worn that look before, and he couldn't quite classify it. When they met, usually on weekend evenings, she approached wearing a smile—one she really committed to with her painted lips, fully exposed teeth, blushing cheeks, and squinting eyes; but not contrived—natural. This look was different, she appeared to be dispassionate from the redundancy of the recent grueling turn of events, a prisoner of her own pain. She was not wearing the one year anniversary necklace, the two year promise ring, the two-and-a-half year earrings, and she did not reach for his hand reflexively like she usually would.
He did not even shave for this outing, the prickly pores seem to her almost a personal attack. Care more, she wanted to throw the words at him and let them shatter in the atmosphere like a porcelain vase, for they were certainly as fragile. He smelled less of cologne and more like Five Guys fry-cookers. She was certain that he had forgotten the fire that went before, his usual response to her presence was missing.
“Hi,” she said, crossing her arms instead of opening them for an embrace.
Sensing that there was an issue, he fumbled for her hand.
“What movie do you want to pick?” he asked. “It's your call,” he added, grasping at straws.
“I don't care,” she said, staring straight ahead at the movie listings and times, avoiding his eyes at all costs, trying to ignore the warmth of his fingers on her palms.
He immediately regretted not stopping for a bouquet of flowers on the way over.