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June 7, 2005

The Eschatologist: A Lifetime Of Regret

Solomon's Haberdashery and Imported Finery, read the weather worn, hand stenciled sign above the store. Old Sol was bent over at the tile-lined doorway, swept clean of debris but still showing it's antiquity, trying to get his key into the lock with shaking hands.

Clearing my throat, I patted Sol on the back. He started slightly, but didn't look at me.

"Damned key always sticks, yanno."

"I know, Sol." I tried to be nonchalant. "So this is it? Last day."

"Despite what Rita said, I never spent all my days here." He looked up, tears streaming.

"I know, Sol."

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