They’re around the big table, nursing yellow ceramic mugs ordered “to stay” and talking about old Chevys, the numbers of cylinders and years and such being tossed about. They’re alternately leaned back in chairs or hunched over elbows on the tabletop, shooting the shit and rarely actually sipping at the coffee. Hand gestures and adamance steer the conversation. From above, shiny bald heads and dark socks in sandals paint their picture.
I think about my occasional outings on Wednesday evenings, a couple of beers with friends. We have more hair but less character.
The group waves goodbye to “Bruce,” who walks that old man walk, slightly hunched and stiff legged, one foot with more drag than the other. There’s an extra chair left behind. The metaphor, my future, isn’t lost on me.