Moments faltered as stammered thoughts riddle through bygone days; eyes clung awkwardly like a skittish handshake.
"Ya wanna sit down?"
"Sure. Have you been here long?"
"Naw, ‘bout a year." Hands fidget across the table, waiting for the right moment.
"I, er... I received your letter." Compassion rendering his unsettled spirit, he gently muttered, "I’m sorry, Joe."
Suddenly breathing came easier; hearts shifted back into normal sinus rhythm. "Thanks, man. I didn’t know if you’d come."
"You knew I would. That’s why you wrote to me."
"Yeah, I knows." His fingers, stuffed in his pockets, fidgeted open and closed, open and closed, open and closed.
"Well..."
"I knows I have done sumpthin’ really, really bad, Frank. An’ I got’s ta pay fer it." Clearing his throat he continued. "But that’s not why I asked you ta come."
Looking up with tearful eyes, he leaned closer to Frank, "I been doing lots ‘a thinking and ..."
"...and I needs you for my witness."
"Witness for what, Joe?"
"...for when I meet my maker."
The stagnant air became electrified by the hush. It wasn’t what Frank had expected to hear.
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