“Whatever you’re doing, keep it up. You’re going to live to be a hundred!”
Riding the elevator down from her office on the eleventh floor, he reached for his phone, but stopped. He’d thought of calling his son, but couldn’t remember whether he and his family were on their vacation to Australia. Maybe he’d just tell him when he heard from him Christmas morning.
It was the first workday after turning the clocks back, so the early darkness unnerved him a bit but in a good way. He pulled his overcoat closed and pushed through the wind to the comfort of the subway station two blocks away.
His subway car was its typical box of pencils plus one full. A few slots from where he was standing, a group of teens talked and laughed loudly over their nearly as loud music. He noted to himself that none of their banter was even worthy of a smirk, and their music was horrendous.
Exiting the car at his stop, he was the lone non-participant in a race to get above ground. Fourteen. He kept count of how many people made eye contact with him as they scampered and swerved past.
He entered his Monday restaurant, sat at his usual table and took out a book he was rereading.
“Good evening, sir. Poached or baked today?” said the waiter.
He looked up, forced a slight smile and said, “Actually, I’d like to see a menu.”
Encouraged by the reaction to the production of his play, "It Might Have Been," Myles Wren decided to tell more of the stories in his head, with homes for these being found in The MacGuffin, Crack the Spine, Saturday Night Reader and others. He was born, raised, and is still living in New York.
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