Older, of course. Tired. Broader through the shoulders. A limp in the left leg.
I went back the next afternoon.
But the eyes were the same.
He glanced up at me and paused for half a beat.
“Sorry,” he said. “You look familiar.”
“Do I?”
He frowned, studying my face, then shook his head. “Maybe not. Long day.”
I went back the next afternoon.
He sat down across from me without asking.
He was wiping tables near the windows. When he got to mine, I said, “Thirty years ago, you asked a girl in a wheelchair to dance at prom.”
His hand stopped on the table.
Slowly, he looked up.
I saw it land in pieces. The eyes first. Then my voice. Then the memory.
He sat down across from me without asking.
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