24“Here you go.” Pat stepped into the room.
He set a white mug of black coffee on the pine table.
I took a tentative sip. Strong and unsweetened.
Presumptuous, assuming my tastes hadn’t changed in two decades.
Unfair that he was right. And that his brew tasted wonderful.
The other armchair sighed as it accepted his weight.
Our chairs were angled so I could see Pat’s face.
His hairline hadn’t moved one millimeter.
Below, four horizontal furrows marked the olive skin on his forehead.
Grooves ran down from each side of his prominent nose. They curved around each side of his mouth.
The facial cragginess made him look tough and experienced.
Damn the man. He hadn’t aged.
He’d seasoned, like those beautiful old bricks.
His jeans and T-shirt fit loosely. I refused to stare at him long
