Margery brushed the fingers of one hand
through the back of her hair. Charlie thought she was going to say
more, but she didn't. At the ferry, he helped her with the box and said
goodbye.
The next morning was again bright and sunny. Charlie returned to the
bench near the ferry and sat, savoring his coffee, croissant, and the
salty air. His brother Orson came to mind. Orson was a pain in the ass,
but he had a point--sometimes you have to make a move.
Two men wearing similar clothes--pressed jeans, T-shirts, white running
shoes, and sunglasses--walked up and took benches closer to the water.
One was older, softer, beginning to put on weight. He sat with his
elbows on his knees, looking across the harbor. The other, fitter one,
stretched full length on his bench, arms out flat behind his head, and
stared into the sky. Neither looked happy. They remained unmoving, as
though they were waiting for a delivery.
That is not the way, Charlie thought. He stood, dropped the empty bag
and cup into a trash can, and walked in the direction of the unknown
furled inside him.
Coming To
"I made a box. It was about so big." The speaker spread his hands on
the counter. "By about so wide." He indicated the other dimension, one
palm by his stomach, the other out by a napkin holder.
The outer hand rose over a plate of eggs. "About so high."
A smaller man at the next stool nodded, lifting his coffee mug.
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