Last week, I wrote about how I met a stranger while reading Murakami in a cafe. Today a similar thing happened.

I was reading The Great Gatsby in the corner of a coffee shop when I felt someone’s eyes on me. I looked up and came face to face with a man. He seemed as though he could be anywhere from 30 to 70 years old; his back was slightly hunched forward and his face showed a few wrinkles, but wore a brilliant head of black hair with no signs of greying. I was sure I had never seen him before. His face was too unique. In our brief moment of eye contact, he pointed at my book, then took out something from his suitcase.

It was an identical copy of The Great Gatsby.

As I stared at him, half in disbelief, half in amazement, he shared with me a little wink. It then occurred to me that I should say something when the barista called out an order: a large long black. The man turned towards the counter, and collected the drink with his free hand. He didn’t even look back as he left the little shop and strolled into the street. As I watched his figure growing smaller and smaller until he was finally engulfed in the sea of Melbourne, I looked back down at the book and remembered that line I had read last week.

“Well, any friend of Gatsby is a friend of mine…””