“Let’s go uptown for coffee, see Johnny.”
“Okay,” I say, although I know he thinks I just need to get out.
(Never start with dialogue, they say; the books, the manuals that teach you how to write.)
Two miles, four minutes later we walk in, I, a step behind him. We pass three bikers, one is standing, attention given to the others in the booth. A flash of almost recognition in peripheral vision, a rope with ends frayed but nearly touching in the passing.
We stand up to the counter and greet our nephew and his cheery, uniformed and helpful summer job. The leather jacket with the fringe of greying beard that has settled in my mind is speaking, though I no longer see him behind me. It is David. For six years daily I had lived with his voice and know it sooner than the man I’d seen, fooled by years gone by.
I am ordering coffee, I am living in the past; I am questioning Johnny, I am questioning David as well.
How are you?
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
Very nice.
Thank you. Unfortunately, true. Fortunately, no one recognized each other immediately.