The old man

A man sits on a weathered green bench. He is not quite an old man but he is close. His clothes fit poorly, purchased when he was thinner. The checkered pattern on his shirt distorts as he settles into his seat. He stares straight ahead but his eyes look toward the past. He sees a woman with skin like caramel, her dark hair pulled into a tight bun. She is wearing a white dress with small red polka dots and she is smiling. One hand is out-stretched; his left hand twitches wanting to reach into the past and grasp her hand offered so freely. Her other hand rests gently on her stomach, a smile lights her face.

He sighs. Shaking the memories from his mind, he struggles to his feet and boards the bus home. Alone.

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