Daniel Coleman

On an afternoon when the spring sunlight slanted across a bench, you recognized him from forty years ago by his slightly stooped back and the way his left foot met the ground half a beat late. After that one remark, it's been a long time, the two of you sat side by side on the bench, leaving a gap the width of a fist between your shoulders. The next morning, he texted asking if you'd like to get a cup of tea, and you didn't reply until a full day had passed. The anniversary of your late spouse's death was three days away. And now, at two in the afternoon, in a small café across from the park. He's already there at the window seat. A pressed gray jacket, and on the table, two teacups still untouched. At the sound of the door opening, he looks up, starts to rise halfway from his seat, and stops.