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June 7th, 1989
Hob is piss drunk when he stumbles out of the tavern. It’s long past last call; the bartender felt bad for him, he thinks, must have found him pathetic, a sad little man who spent far too much money and let his tongue get looser and looser as the night dragged on while he remained both alone and lonely. At first, the bartender had been all too kind and happy to chat with him, to try to boost his spirits, but only so much could be said as dark fell beyond the windows outside and Hob’s mood darkened just the same. The bartender had let Hob stay past closing, his head resting on his folded arms on the sticky surface of the bar, but he’d had to go when it was time for the staff to head home. He had to; he couldn’t very well stay and wait, could he?
And wait for what, besides? “He didn’t—didn’t fucking show,” Hob mumbles under his breath to nobody, his words swallowed, hollow, by the dense Summer air, sticky even in the late hours of the night. Or would it be the early hours of the morning? Hob doesn’t know what to make of up or down, really, it’s been a century since he’s drunk so much.
A century precisely, and isn’t that just the thing of it? The root of it, he thinks, as he starts to weave his way to his flat. The root of it is, is that you made a bloody fucking mess of things last time.
It takes him nearly a half hour before he makes his way home, and he empties his stomach in the bushes beside the front stoop. No matter how many times he’s done this bit, the drinking, the vomiting, the self-pitying bit, he never gets used to it. He hates it. Hates himself a pretty hefty amount at the moment, too, when he searches his pockets for his keys and comes up empty-handed. He’s left his mobile at the tavern as well it seems.
No matter; Hob’s already been thinking of going back the next day. Maybe he’d forgotten, his friend with no name, or was simply held up by something else. A prior engagement, or another Constantine, perhaps, there’s been more than one. Yes, he’ll go back tomorrow. He’s owed an explanation, he thinks, trying to spur anger that he doesn’t feel.
Hob curls into himself at the top of the stoop by the front door, settles in for the rest of the morning, or at least until the sun breaks over the horizon, he hopes.
Maybe tomorrow will be different. Maybe then, he’ll come.
Hob closes his eyes. He sleeps; dreamless.
🙒
June 8th, 1989
“You look like a drowned rat, my boy,” the bartender says. At the same time, he’s pulling Hob’s mobile and keys out from beneath the bar. “Didn’t expect you back so early, but ‘m glad you’re here. Here’s your things. Cleanin’ found ‘em first thing this mornin, down on the ground.”
Hob feels a rush of gratitude, regardless of having walked back to the tavern in the rain, regardless of his pounding hangover and aching body. One of the other tenants in his building had woken him not an hour after he’d blacked out on the stoop, having taken their dog out on their leash and stepping right on Hob in the process. It was all the sleep he’d managed, choosing instead to shower and get food into his belly while the sun came up, and by the time the sunrise had run its course, he was good and awake. Miserable, certainly, but awake.
The phone’s dead of course, not that it matters, and it’s tacky when he takes it from the bartender and shoves it into his satchel bag. Big clunky thing it is, he wonders why he bothers with it other than having been so damn enthralled with the technology when it’d come out. Something new; Hob loves new things, useless as some of them are.
“Thank you for holding onto them,” Hob says, pocketing his key. “And for not telling me to turn heel right back on out of here. I can’t imagine I was a joy at the end of the night last night, in all of my brooding.”
The bartender waves his hands around, dismissing Hob’s words. “Not the first heartbreak I’ve seen, and won’t be the last,” he says. He raises an eyebrow. “Will that be all for you, or were you lookin’ for some hair of the dog?”
Hob’s stomach roils. “Oh, Jesus Christ, no. Thanks, but no. Tea?” He asks, hopeful.
The bartender laughs.
Hob makes a home for himself in the corner, just beneath the stairwell. He’s brought his books for studying, chose them carefully before leaving the house, all the while avoiding thinking directly about how long he’d stay, knowing he’d stay from open to close if the chair across from his were to remain empty.
🙒
June 9th, 1989
For the second night in a row, Hob’s barely slept.
This time it’s because he’s riled himself up with worry . Having lived longer than six hundred years, anxiety is a feeling he manages rather well by this point; he can either control the mess he’s found himself in, or he can’t. In either direction, worry does him little to no good, and so he pushes through, at times foolishly confident, and others after being more calculated than absolutely necessary. On the rare occasions when the icy slip and slide of worry creeps up his spine and nestles into his bones, he finds himself truly rattled, more by the feeling than anything.
Worried about being worried. Sometimes he thinks the time he’s spent being alive will do him in with madness. But this? This is something entirely different, foreign in a way that’s much, much worse, entirely out of his control in a way that leaves him bereft.
He walks through the door of the White Horse Tavern without his bag, bookless, his hair a bit greasy and his clothes unkempt, not having showered since the early morning before. He’s running on fumes and a few hours of restless sleep, half a meal from the night before and a swallow of water here and there. The only thing he carries with him is a small, aged notebook in one hand and a pen behind his ear. His mobile is still dead at home. Bugger it.
There’s a different bartender here this morning who pays him no mind as he heads back to the table below the stairs, the best place for viewing the rest of the tavern. The staff is getting ready to head into the lunch rush but as of yet, there are only a few patrons milling about, none of them with black mops of hair or stuffy posture. Not that Hob’s expecting him, not really. It’s two days late, isn’t it, and he’s never been late.
He’s not coming. You’ve fucked it all up, and he’s not coming.
He’s trying to quell the panic that’s been threatening to rise in his throat since the wee hours of the morning. Stomach acid, bile, and regret. He cracks open the notebook in his hand to read through some of his most recent notes, written over the last few centuries. Part of the reason he’d lost sleep was due to the realization that he’d lost track of it, the worn-bound sheaf of papers in his hands, and it’d taken hours to rifle through boxes to find it. He never fully unpacked when he stayed in flats or rented homes, never saw the point in going through the effort, and he’d paid for it that morning.
“...need not have come to his defense…” Hob muttered, reading through the notes he’d taken back in the late 1700s. “He literally, literally cannot be dead.”
“I’m sorry sir?” The server, come to take his order, a baffled look on her face. Understandable, that.
He smiles at her. “Nothing, sorry. Uhm, whatever’s on special will be lovely, thank you.”
She leaves him and he goes back to his notes, tidbits he’s curated over the years about his friend. Things he may be, things he most certainly isn’t. Words with question marks, things crossed out, bible verses notated and times and dates of sightings over the centuries, instances where Hob was certain he’d glimpsed him here or there, even just the tail end of his hair or that ethereal sparkle in his eye…
He pores over the notebook until nightfall, learning nothing new and calming himself not even a touch. He leaves before last call at war with himself, believing two things to be true at once: that the being with no name that has come to be his most steadfast thread in life truly holds no regard for him and has simply chosen to never see him again, and also that no, no, Hob is certain to the core of him that he’s seen care and affection in the galaxies of his eyes and in the upturn of the man’s mouth; eagerness. He would have come if he’d been able, which means…
Hob doesn’t return the next day, in fear that it may just lead him down a path he’s been down before. He’s lonely enough as is.
🙒
June 7th, 1990
It’s a year later, and the tavern’s been closed for months now.
There’s a new one just around the corner. Hob’s not been there yet, it’ll be his first time going later in the day once they open, but he’s got to get this done first. He feels like he might just itch out of his skin if he doesn’t, even if the idea of defacing property doesn’t exactly settle well within him, either. It’s a thought that nearly makes him giggle and also makes him try to swallow down centuries worth of guilt for all of the laws he’s broken, injustices he’s committed, pain and atrocities he’d inflicted on others in his past lives. Things he’ll never make up for, regardless of an eternity of effort. He’s been reading up on this decade’s versions of therapy and wonders how long it would take a shrink to lock him up if he aimed for honesty. Best to continue to try to deal with it on his own, most likely.
Well at least, he supposes, when he thinks about things that way, puts his history in that perspective, spraypainting the gate outside the old tavern hardly seems like a very evil thing to do.
He uses black spray paint and the fumes are atrocious, spurring him to move quickly, although he’s already trying to hurry it up before early morning rush hour starts. The sun’s just barely risen as is and the neighborhood is quiet, birds the only company as he walks the can of paint down the block, creating the body of a long arrow pointing toward the New Inn.
When he’s finished, he stands at the end of the block and admires his work. “Shoddily done,” he tells himself, chipper, feeling satisfied that at least he’s made the only effort he can outside of camping himself on the lawn of an abandoned building.
Later, when he does step foot into the New Inn, he finds that he’s not mourning the White Horse as badly as he expected. It’s nice, airy and bright, and the only stab he feels is quick and clean, just below his breastbone; I wonder what he’d think of the place.
He doesn’t stay until last call. It’s all off, a year that doesn’t end correctly, like celebrating one’s birthday on the wrong day. He leaves after a few hours and a couple of beers, friendly chats with the staff (a blend of old and new), and an early dinner. He tells himself he’ll come back next year, perhaps sooner if the mood strikes him.
🙒
June 7th, 1991
He leaves the New Inn at twilight, fancying a walk before returning to his flat. It’ll do him good, he thinks. He’s buried in his studies recently, history this time, working at the university library simply because he can. He doesn’t need the money and being surrounded by books brings him a quiet pleasure that he’s built an affinity for over the last half-century. Still, the entirety of his life consisting of academia and, more recently, an undercurrent of loss and mourning, has made him restless, antsy, seeking and needing some kind of purpose. He finds himself wishing for the nameless one to come to him, because he misses him of course, but also so that he can ask Hob if he still wishes to live. Hob will tell him yes, and he will mean it, but he aches to say it out loud. For the reassurance that life still burns as brightly.
He goes out of his way to stroll by the river, for the comfort that water brings him. It’s a Friday evening and so the riverwalk is a tad busier than usual, families pushing prams and couples linking hands. There are groups of college kids playing frisbee and a few lone skateboarders and yes, it is rather nice, nice in a way that keeps Hob from wanting to go home to his flat filled with books and beige walls.
He’s leaning against the railing, gazing over the water, enjoying the way the sun’s light ripples on the surface as it sets when he feels someone beside him.
He feels them and turns, and his eyes take a moment to grasp onto the shape of them, of her; she’s short and slight, both hands grasping onto the railing as she leans her body back and forth, her elbow knocking into Hob’s as she swings to and fro. Her neon hair is shorn close to her scalp and her clothes are a mess of textures, the smell of old wine clinging to her like a second skin; she feels like someone who’s stepped out of the water a decade too late, and when she turns to grin at Hob, he likes her instantly, personal space issues notwithstanding.
“Hello,” he says. “Good?”
“Too hot everywhere but by the water,” she says, and she’s too right for it, Hob thinks. Her voice is musical without melody, two warring instruments playing a slightly different note at the same time. “It’s saner here, right here. You know? Does that make sense?”
Hob looks back out over the water. It does make sense, and he tells her so. She seems to delight in his agreement, leaning over and resting her temple atop her hands where they continue to grip the railing, eyeing Hob from the side. They stay like that for a few minutes, Hob looking over the water, the girl looking at him while she moves, constantly moves. He wonders if he should be unsettled, thinks that she’s the type to likely unsettle most folks. He finds himself rather grateful to not be alone.
“Are you thinking of going into the water?” She asks him suddenly. “I don’t think you should, unless it’s just for a swim. Even then, things swim in there that I don’t think would like you in June.”
Hob blinks. “No. No, I don’t think I should either. And I wasn’t…I wasn’t thinking about, you know, jumping in or anything.”
She hums. “You don’t seem the type. Your shoes are both tied and you’ve got all your buttons on your shirt.” Hob is startled to see tears forming in her eyes; she blinks them away and grins.
“Yeah, well,” he says slowly. “There’s a lot to live for, you know.” And he’s compelled to say something nice to her, kind to her, this strange girl whose age he can’t peg and whose shadow he can’t find. “I like your hair, by the way. It matches the sunset.”
She lets go of the railing and clutches her hands over her chest, rocks on her heels, and faces him head-on. “You!” She exclaims. “There aren’t many of you, if any at all! Wait, wait, wait.” And then she turns and runs, and Hob can’t find her within a second.
He’s wondering if he’s finally cracked and he’s about to leave when she’s suddenly right there again, filling his gaze and thrusting something into his hands. His back hits the railing and he lets out a sound of surprise before righting himself and observing his new gift.
“You’ve brought me a plant?”
“Her name is Phillis.”
“Phillis,” Hob says, and he doesn’t understand it, but it feels right on his tongue. The pot is old, clay, cracked, and heavy, but the plant seems vibrant and healthy, if small.
“Yes. It’s her name and you can’t change it. You can call her something else, I guess, if you insist, but you must always recognize that Phillis is her name. She’s a baby, fresh and new, and I’ve been waiting to find her a home. You must feed her and sing to her and make her live and keep her thriving, do you understand?”
She’s right in front of him, on the other side of the plant, her eyes, one green and one blue, wide open and expectant. She’s smiling, a twitchy smile, like she needs this.
“Of course, yeah. You’ve got my word, my friend. I’ll take good care of little Phillis, here.” Hob’s never had a plant in his long life. He’ll have to get a book on how to do it properly.
She squeals and claps. “I knew in my squishiest of guts you wouldn’t laugh at me, Hob Gadling,” she says, and she spins, and she’s gone, leaving Hob by the river grasping a potted philodendron to his chest.
🙒
June 7th, 1995
Hob’s chosen to complete this dissertation about the history of crime against women in late-1800s London and the ongoing academic impact of sexist and racist language in historical reporting of said crimes, and it’s a harrowing topic he’s chosen this time around, regardless of what living in the streets of London at the time may have done for him as far as having a bird’s eye view to the vile way humans used to treat one another, the way he used to treat other humans. He finds himself buried in newspapers, textbooks, index cards, pens, and absurdly even spiraled notebooks of graphing paper as he’s tucked away in the corner of the New Inn, trying to decipher his own notes in the margins of a tattered, falling apart secondhand book he’d picked up sometime in the early 50s. He’s exhausted and starving as he keeps forgetting to eat and sleep in favor of studying and writing, and he imagines he must look much like a maniac, a mad scientist of sorts to anyone who passes by.
There’s a benefit to the madness that he can’t see past, however, and he recognizes that he hasn’t thought of his long-absent friend much at all throughout the morning, no matter the date or the ritualistic, compulsive schedule that saw him lugging half of his personal library to a tavern mid-morning. He doesn’t think of the nameless one at all, in fact, until a man finds it within his right to pull out the empty chair at Hob’s table and fall into it, unannounced and unbothered.
And it’s hard not to think of his friend, because this man bears a striking resemblance, one that for the most instantaneous of moments sends a lightning bolt through Hob’s spine and he jolts forward, hands jerking as though to scream oh, if it’s you I must touch, if I don’t touch I will wither and drift from this place, unanchored.
But it’s not him. This man is just that; a man, with milky pale skin and shoulder-length hair, ink black but tamed, and that’s just one difference but it’s enough to also tame Hob’s hands, which grip the edge of the table in purchase and it’s the hair that allows him to focus, because even when his friend had tried his hardest, his hair had always been just askew, just stubborn enough to fall out of line. This man’s hair is perfect, and he’s talking, asking questions about all of the papers and books.
He’s interesting enough, Hob thinks, and easy to talk to, so he does. The sting of who the man isn’t lessens slightly as he gets to know a bit about who the man is, and when he leaves at the end of the night he steps a bit lighter than he has in years, wondering if a pianist named Mads can help fill some of this emptiness inside of him that he can’t quite seem to pin down long enough to fill by himself.
🙒
June 7th, 2000
“Is this seat taken?”
Hob looks up from his work to see a woman standing before him, indicating the empty chair at the two-person table he’d nabbed when the Inn opened in the late morning. It’s the beginning of the dinner rush and when he glances around he sees that the place is packed, even the bar.
“It’s not,” he says, waiting for a bloom of hurt that doesn’t come. He’s been coming to the New Inn every year since 1990, either alone or with Mads, with no sign of his old friend along the way, not even a whisper. His expectations are near zero that he’ll show up before 2089, if even then, let alone on some random year. And so he’s free to share a meal with a stranger, no harm done.
They don’t talk at first, Hob remaining focused on jotting down the skeleton of the syllabus for his first class coming up in the Fall while the woman peruses the dinner menu. After she orders, however, she asks about his work and they strike up a pleasant enough conversation, one that moves onto food, cooking, and Hob’s time in Italy, the timeline which he skews slightly to avoid further questions and looks of confusion.
“Well, Mr. Gadling, I sure am glad to have found myself at your table,” the woman, Rebecca, says after she pays her tab. “Fancy jotting down my number and perhaps doing this again? On purpose?”
Hob’s flattered, flustered; he smiles at her, and she’s smart, a people person. She reads him instantly. “Ah,” she says. “Have I read this wrong? Or you’ve got someone? Either way, no harm, no foul.”
“No, no foul at all,” he says. “You’re lovely company, Rebecca, and in a different decade of my life, perhaps. As I’ve blabbered on about, I’m getting prepared to begin this adjunct professorship, and…” he licks his lips. “I’ve also just gotten out of a long relationship with my partner, so I’m a bit of a wreck, to be honest. Not a great potential date, and not in a place to pretend otherwise.” His smile feels tight now, as do the corners of his eyes.
She reaches over and pats his hand. “Robert, please. You don’t owe me an explanation, although that is a pretty damn good one. Can I ask what happened, with your partner?”
It creeps up on him, then. Slowly, like waking from a deep sleep. Sadness, blended along the edges with something softer, something warm. “Well, I can’t really blame him, you know. He parsed out that I’m in love with someone else. Have been for, well. An unbelievably long time. And it turns out that I’m just not the kind of bloke who can be really, truly there with someone else with all of that mess going on at the same time, and so…” he trails off.
Rebecca pats his hand again, squeezing it once for good measure at the end before pulling her mobile out of her pocket. “You know, you were right about not being in a good place for dating, and I thank you for not pretending. What it does sound like, though, is that you could use a friend?” She slides her phone over the table. “Punch in your number for me. I’m great at boy talk, I mix a mean drink, and you can use me as an armchair therapist while making me homemade Italian pasta as payment.”
Hob laughs and they exchange numbers. A friend , he thinks to himself at last call, after a few more hours of waiting and working by himself. A friend might be nice .
🙒
June 7th, 2009
It’s been twenty years since their missed engagement.
It hits Hob harder than he expects, harder than it has in many years. Time has, in a way, lost its significance as more of it slips through his fingers. The magic of it will never wane, he doesn’t think, but the weight of the individual years becomes lighter, less meaningful. But somehow, these twenty additional years without those few hours of his companion’s company weigh on him like an anchor, something that sinks him toward the ground when he thinks about it too closely.
Hob has been unpacking boxes recently. He’s bought himself a house, a lovely old end-of-terrace that he quite likes. He’s not owned a home for many decades, enjoying the freedom of renting and uprooting often during this century. Now, however, he figures he can get away with being in one spot for a while, with the advancements in cosmetics and plastic surgery, not to mention how easy it is to get his hands on false documents. He’d introduced himself as being much younger than he looked as an adjunct professor at the first university where he worked, and he’s done the same here at this new university. As young as he could get away with by way of a few doctored documents, a number fudged on his resume, fingers crossed about the vetting process. Perhaps he’ll have to dye his hair silver a few decades on, who can guess, but it’ll be worth it for a long stint in this house, with its lovely gardens.
It’s early morning, too early for the Inn to be open just yet, and he’s hanging up pictures. It’s a bit of a balm, the reminders that he’s not allowed himself to miss out on life over these last few decades, that he’s gone on work outings and he’s taken himself back across the world here and there, has found new quirks to enjoy and new ways to view mundanity. He even hangs the photo of him and Mads on vacation, smiling as he does so. Memories are allowed to be complex things, he thinks.
When he unwinds the bubble wrap around the frame holding the ink-drawn portrait of him and his nameless friend, he pauses. He knows he won’t hang it, he never has. It’s a gesture that feels too intimate, too forgiving for a man who, so far as he knows, can’t even acknowledge them as friends.
Hob tucks the frame away in a dresser drawer for the time being. He figures he’ll take it out someday, perhaps the day they meet again. Once he receives the apology he knows he deserves, or a name; some resolution to the ugly ball of sick worryupsetregretsadness that resides in his stomach. Until then, Hob thinks with a sigh as he shrugs on his jacket, preparing for his day at the Inn, some things are best left hidden. He’s done it for 120 years, what’s 80 more, if he’s lucky?
🙒
June 7th, 2015
“So, what’s the story, man? If you don’t mind me asking? Here comes the needle, so be still.”
That’s all the warning Hob gets before the tattoo needle pierces the skin. He holds his breath until the initial burn passes and persists, and breathes out slowly. It’s not so bad, he thinks, knowing it’s easy for him to say after his body has been through war, starvation, bloodletting, sickness, and so much fucking more that maybe should have killed other men. It’s not even entirely unpleasant, but perhaps it’s for the knowing of what will be left over from the pain when it’s finished.
“The story?” Hob asks, craning his head to the side to look over at his tattoo artist. Their name is Tay and they were kind enough to book Hob for an 8pm appointment even though the shop closes at 9, knowing that the process would take “at least two, probably three hours.” When Hob had initially inquired about the appointment in the beginning of May, Tay had been understanding of Hob’s desire to book the appointment on a specific day, and even though Hob hadn’t specified why he’d wanted to come in as early or as late as possible, Tay had been accommodating. Hob found himself, not for the first time or the thousandth, wondering what he’d done to deserve such kindness from others.
“Yeah. I’ve done lots of trees, flowers, plants. This one looks new, was just wondering if it’s a particular plant for a particular reason is all. No pressure if you don’t feel like spillin’ your secrets, or whatever.”
“No, it’s fine,” Hob says, watching the needle trace the delicate purple of the outline over his skin. “It’s called an Agave americana. That’s the proper name, but its nickname of sorts is the century plant.”
“Why’s that?” Tay asks, taking a moment to dip the tip of the needle into a small cap of ink they’d filled before getting started.
“Well, people used to think that the plant, it’s an aloe plant, only blossomed once every hundred years. We know different now, and it’s more like every thirty or so years, but the name stuck.”
“That’s this part here, the blossom?” Tay asks, indicating the tall stalk in the center of the aloe plant traced on Hob’s upper arm. “The part we’re doing yellow?”
Hob nods. He holds his breath again when Tay uses their foot to put pressure on the pedal connected to the gun; it hums to life, and there’s the stinging burn. “Yeah, right. It blooms, lives for a month, give or take, and then the whole plant dies.”
“And that’s it then?”
Hob smiles. “Well, in a sense. Once it blossoms and dies it leaves behind an insane amount of seeds, and the cycle starts all over again. Something brand new, like clockwork.”
“Every hundred years.”
“Well, in theory, or symbolically, yeah. Every hundred years.”
Tay sighs. “Well that’s just bloody sad and romantic, isn’t it?”
Hob closes his eyes, smile still playing on his lips, burning where he’s supposed to, and everywhere else all at once. “Isn’t it just.”
🙒
June 6th, 2020
It’s the night before the 7th and Hob has decided on red spray paint this time around.
He re-paints his message to the nameless one on the gate every few years, give or take, depending on the weather and the quality of the paint the time before. He’s not tried red before, and it’s so vibrant that he thinks perhaps this time it will make a difference.
“Daft,” he says to himself when he reaches the end of the gate, finishing off the tip of the last arrow. His hands are stained red. Stained, stained. “You’re daft to think this will make a difference.”
It’s in this moment, with night falling around him, his hands sticky with effort and his eyes heavy with centuries of exhaustion, that he decides he’s not going to go to the New Inn tomorrow. It’s a thought he’s not considered over the past 31 years, though he understands it’s insanity that keeps him coming back. The New Inn is a third home to him, after his own house and the University, he’s there so often; on random days, sure, but always, always on the 7th, just in case, just on the off chance, but there’s something raw and aching inside of him, behind his lungs and between his skin and bones. This, he knows, is what it feels like. Heartbreak.
Acceptance.
He goes into the tavern and makes a weird request, and he's glad for it when he’s handed paper, a pen, and a plain white envelope without question. The note he writes is quick and sloppy, frantic even, but it’ll do, and the bartended promises that between himself and the opening shift barkeep tending, they’ll get the note to Hob’s friend “who looks a bit like a ghost with a Robert Smith complex.”
It’s hard to leave the letter there, and it’s hard to sleep later that night. Hob tosses and turns, uncomfortable with the choice he’s made, skin clammy but eyes dry. He’d shot off a text to Rebecca, canceling their lunch at the Inn the next day, and he knows she’d be there in a flash if he asks her to be, but also knows he won’t, knows he’ll spend the day debating on if he’s made the right choice, if he’d chosen the right words, if he’s worrying himself over nothing.
This is the most pointless note I’ve ever written. You’ll never read it. You’re not coming.
On the off chance that you do, know that I’ve been waiting all this time for this moment and I’m sorry I’ve missed it. It’s just that today I’m tired. I hope you can understand.
I’ve left my business card for you. You can use it to find me if you’d like. There’s no point in lying, I want to see you. I’ll probably yell. I’ll probably hug you too, you right bastard.
I hope you’re okay. I’ve missed you something awful.
It’s good that you’ll never read this, but I really wish you would.
Hob Gadling
June 7th, 2020 - 11:58pm
Hob’s dressed in sleepwear and untied sneakers when he walks up to the bar. He asks the bartender if his friend happened to stop by during the day.
“Sorry lad,” the bartender says, and he sounds it as he reaches below the bartop before pulling out the sealed envelope with Hob’s writing on the outside. He holds it out toward Hob, who takes it gingerly, waiting for it to disintegrate the moment it touches his shaking fingers. “It’s been a slow one today, didn’t see no strange fella lookin’ like you’d mentioned.”
Hob nods. “‘course. No, of course. Thank you, anyway.” He pointedly ignores the way the ink-stark words he’d penned the day before seem to shine where they rest on the face of the envelope.
Dearest Friend
He tosses the letter into the fireplace when he gets home. The brandy he sips while he watches it burn in turn burns his throat, but it helps him sleep, and it’s a fair balance in the end.
🙒
June 7th, 2021
You’re alive—
“You’re late.”
You found me—
“It seems I owe you an apology.”
I never thought I’d hear your voice again, you beautiful bastard—
“I’ve always heard it impolite to keep one’s friends waiting.”
Oh. That’s my dreams, come true.
“An apology? Well, I wasn’t sure if I’d ever see the day. Wasn’t sure if I’d ever see you again, truth be told. Glad you’re here.”
Stay. Stay. Stay.
Let me keep you.