The following Tuesday, the writer found himself at the same bench twenty minutes early, feeling ridiculous. He'd brought coffee and a book he wasn't reading, checking his watch like a nervous teenager on a first date.
"You're early," came a familiar voice. The old man approached with Buster trotting beside him, both looking pleased with themselves.
"I'm always early," the writer lied smoothly. "Remember? You used to tease me about it."
"Ah yes, your chronic punctuality disorder," the old man settled onto the bench with a theatrical sigh. "Still haven't found a cure, I see."
"The medical community has given up on me."
They sat watching the sun paint its daily masterpiece across the sky. Today it was more subdued—gentle pastels instead of yesterday's dramatic oranges.
"You know what I realized?" the old man said, unwrapping what appeared to be a ham sandwich. "We never actually established what our relationship is."
The writer nearly choked on his coffee. "I'm sorry?"
"Well, are we brothers? Old colleagues? Former enemies turned friends? The mystery is killing me." He took a bite of his sandwich and added, "Also, I'm pretty sure I didn't make this sandwich, but I found it in my kitchen, so either I'm more domestic than I remember, or I have a very thoughtful burglar."
"Maybe," the writer said carefully, "we're just two people who enjoy sunsets and existential confusion."
"Best kind of friendship, really. No baggage, no history of who borrowed what and never returned it." The old man offered half his sandwich. "Want some? I can't vouch for its origins, but it tastes like hope."
"Hope has a flavor?"
"Distinctly like ham and mustard, apparently."