Every Friday

Every Friday.

Copyright © 2018

Todd Selleck

All rights reserved.

This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the publisher's express written permission except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Produced/Printed in the United States of America.

Dune view Publishing

P.O. Box 223

Byron Center, MI. 49315

www.thestoryaswritten.com

All situations and characters are fictional.

Every Friday.

I saw him again.

That mysterious dark-haired man that walks by every Friday on his way to work, or maybe to see his girlfriend, or hell, who knows, maybe he's gay, who can tell anymore?

I don't know.

Each week I wait for that moment, that brief interlude of connection between two strangers separated by panes of glass. He glances inside my meager little that's a store filled with magazines, over-priced snow globes, maps, and t-shirts for the tourists that want to take something back home as evidence to their visit to an over-populated city that has buildings so tall; they deny the Sun's existence.

It's almost the same time each Friday when he walks by my store. He looks inside while shyly smiling.

His face is boyish, his hair highlighted with natural auburn strands, and his hazel eyes shine, piercing my thoughts and freezing any response I try to give to accommodate his magical spell.

By the time I pop back into reality and wave with a mummified stiffness, he's gone.

Seduction teases with such guilty pleasure.

This routine has been going on for almost a month, and I can't bring myself to walk outside and do something and wait for him to approach. My anticipation of seeing him squashes the ambition it takes to take a few steps outside and prepare myself for an introduction.

I thought the days of women being hard to get were over or is it that nature's force of influence still overrides all the empowerment we strive for and have achieved? I guess we still have that desire to be chased. It's something internal that makes us feel worthy of the pursuit; that's my excuse for being a chicken-shit anyway.

Today was a little different, though. I did walk outside and looked down the street to see if I could catch a fading glimpse of him as he walked away, but I only caught the glance of a homeless guy who poked his head up at me and winked. I waved back at him only because I knew who he was. It was John. We went to the same high school, but after a tragedy struck his soul with the force of a lightning bolt, he fell on hard times, "Face First," as he used to say to me when we happened to talk with one another.

Now he keeps his distance and just winks at me when our infrequent, distant meetings happen.

Poor John.

He graduated at the top of our class, joined the Air Force, went to the academy, and met his wife; they got married and had a child. It was only about one year after his daughter was born when his wife and daughter were killed while he was on a mission. It was a horrible crime, and the person or persons who committed it have never been found. Whoever it was is out there living their life, while he destroyed beyond recognition. It crushed his spirit. He gave up and became depressed; John never escaped its clutches.