“How do you like your eggs?” The old man, much younger and, from a time too long ago to recount, asked his newlywed bride.

“Usually, not so runny.” She sat at a cheap card table that served as their kitchen table, in an apartment that was too small to accommodate her large beaming eyes and bubbly smile.

He attempted to examine the contents of the pan through a giant yawn. “Maybe I used too much milk?”

“You’re sweet to get up early with me to make breakfast.

A week went by. Then another. Everyday, the old man waited, alone, on the bench, facing his wife, feeding the pigeons, telling stories. Yet, his tales fell flat, for his fast friend was no longer there. “I’m sorry, Patty. I promised I would return, but you had no way of knowing. I didn’t abandon you. I promise. Please come back,” he whispered, as if in fervent prayer.