People say I'm a dreamer

You meet Walter Mitty at a nondescript café on a drizzly Tuesday afternoon. He’s wearing a beige cardigan, slightly wrinkled, and looks like the kind of man who always carries exact change but never a wallet. You’re trying to make conversation. Really, you are.

“So, Walter,” you say, carefully lifting your cup. “What’ve you been up to lately?”

He stirs his coffee absentmindedly, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond you. His expression is both alert and distant, like he’s tuned to a radio frequency you can’t quite hear.

“Well?” you prompt, forcing cheer into your voice. “Walter?”

Still nothing. Then he takes a sharp breath—loud enough that people at the next table glance over. His eyes widen, his fingers curl tightly around the teaspoon. For a moment, you think he’s choking. Or maybe it’s something worse—a stroke, or one of those sudden episodes they always warn you about in first-aid courses you never paid enough attention to.

“Are you alright?” you ask, leaning forward, alarmed.

He blinks rapidly, like he’s just returned from a long journey. “Oh,” he says, waving a hand dismissively. “Sorry. I was just back in Taipei.”

“Taipei?”

“Yes,” he says gravely, leaning in. “The tea shop. Have you ever been? Marvellous jasmine tea. But there was this... incident.”

“Incident?”

He nods solemnly. “I was sampling some oolong—an exquisite blend, mind you—when I noticed the room had gone very quiet. Too quiet. Turns out, I’d butchered the pronunciation of ‘thank you’ in Mandarin. Instead of gratitude, I’d apparently accused the shopkeeper’s mother of raising pigs in a factory.”

Your mouth opens, but no words come out.

Mitty presses on, oblivious. “The tension was unbearable. A burly man at the next table—clearly a factory worker, judging by his hands—stood up, fists clenched. It was clear I’d offended him, too. You could cut the air with a knife.” He pauses dramatically, taking a sip of his coffee as though to steady himself. “I had no choice but to apologize in Cantonese. A language I do not, strictly speaking, speak.”

“Walter,” you begin gently, “I think—”

“—But then!” He raises a finger, his voice rising slightly. “The burly man laughed. And so did everyone else. Turns out, I’d accidentally used a Cantonese idiom that implied the factory worker was exceptionally handsome. We drank tea together for hours after that. By the time I left, we were practically brothers.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

“Walter,” you say at last, choosing your words carefully. “Have you ever considered seeing someone about this?”

He frowns. “Seeing someone about what?”

“You know, these... episodes.”

“Episodes?”

“Like just now. You were gone for almost two minutes. Completely checked out.”

His brow furrows, and for a moment you think he’s genuinely considering your suggestion. Then a small, sly smile creeps across his face. “Gone?” he says. “Perhaps. Or perhaps I was exactly where I needed to be.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

The conversation falters after that, though Walter seems perfectly content to sit in silence, sipping his coffee and staring dreamily out the window. You wonder, briefly, what’s happening behind those faraway eyes—whether he’s scaling mountains or dodging bullets or mastering some arcane craft that only exists in the recesses of his mind.

When you part ways, he clasps your hand warmly. “A pleasure,” he says, and you can’t help but believe he means it.

As you watch him disappear down the street, his gait unremarkable yet oddly purposeful, you wonder how much of Walter Mitty is trapped in this world—and how much is quietly, gloriously free.