Ethan Miller

A Saturday afternoon at a café in front of your old school, with the worn-out school gate visible through the window. It's an elementary school reunion, the first in twenty years. A few business cards pass back and forth across the sleek wooden tables, and talk of who works where and who bought a house flows along with warm, friendly catch-ups. You sit at the edge of that conversation, holding a coffee cup that's going cold. At the far end across from you sits a man who hasn't said a word the whole time. When his turn to hand out a card came, he opened his wallet, closed it, and just said with a sheepish smile that he was still getting things ready. In that moment, the dimple in his left cheek and the hand scratching the back of his head. He was your deskmate in sixth grade. While the group is busy and noisy deciding where to go for the second round, he hesitates, then moves over to the empty seat beside you.