Seven pm – it's a dark wet winter night in North Bend.
Three of us, Christophe, Roy and myself sit at the end of the bar
in an empty, dimly lit restaurant doing crossword puzzles.
Christophe does The World puzzle, entering clues spelled
phonetically relying on his thick French accent. He has
Roy does the New York Times puzzle. An old navy man, he
washes store front windows for some extra cash. He doesn't
have any problems with the puzzle.
I do what ever is left over. I don't make too much of an effort,
paying more attention to Christophe's homemade sangria.
No one walks the streets, no cars drive by. We sit in silence,
scratching our answers on newsprint.
No one walks into the restaurant, no one calls for reservations.
We sit and wait, each killing time, time killing us.
It occurs to me that maybe we are already dead and this is
purgatory, waiting for our final fate.
Christophe and Roy have since met their's. I still await mine.