He came in and picked his seat, and bench and table. Pushed it aside and proceeded to sit. Ordered quickly. Suited. With a long coat both formal and weather resistant. A suitable functional choice for the commuter. He mumbled to himself with a mad suppressed energy, wondering what the hell was going on.

The strain of life on his face. What mess he is in... Written all over his brow. His coat now trapped between his arse and the bench and falling disheveled onto the floor in a paused action. He continued his mutterings into his sandwich. No added fries or soup. No time it seems. The napkin pulled, squeezed and compressed into a ball on the edge of a crumbed plate. He's too distracted to feel its effects. His mind is on whatever he left, and whatever he has to pick up when this torturous break has finished. And payed. And exited with his coattails flowing behind his shined shoes. 

The bench is now emptied. Waiting, perhaps for a young mother with an infant boy, mumbling to himself and wondering what the hell is going on.