A sudden influx of hot air swam into the restaurant as a tall figure opened up the door and stepped into the Golden Peking. 

Rodger wasn't exactly what you could call a regular, but he stopped in every now and again to sample the best Chinese in the city. He attributed his affection for the food to an old Cantonese woman who would babysit him sometimes when he was young and his mother had to work late. The woman had been a phenomenal cook, and the smell wafting out of the back of the restaurant always brought him back to a special place in his childhood. So every week he found he had a little money left over you could bet he'd be appearing at the Golden Peking sometime in the near future.

The door closed as the man walked forward to take a seat at a nearby table. His walk was graceful, in a strange way. He walked as though he was being dragged forward by the hair, sharply, without giving thought as to whether the rest of his body to keep up. At any moment you were expecting some sort of crash that was never forthcoming. Somehow his legs always manged to arranged themselves underneath him, steadying him just enough that he could move forward another step. Watching him cross a room was like watching a tree topple over in perpetuity. 

He slid right into an open seat at an empty table and leaned back with a relaxed look on his face, deeply breathing in the cool air. Being outside today had been wilting. The man liked working up a good sweat, but out there work didn't come into it. It was as though the entire atmosphere were trying to wring people out like a dishrag.