I watched the realization hit him in stages. First my stare. Next the sound of my words. Finally, the flashback itself.
“Thea?” he breathed out, sounding as though pronouncing it caused him actual pain.
“Good heavens,” he whispered. “I sensed it. I was sure there was a connection.”
“You actually remembered my face a bit?”
“Just a fraction,” he replied. “But enough to keep my mind racing the entire evening after my shift ended.”
I eventually heard the story of his life post-graduation.
His mom fell ill during those hot months. His dad had already left. Sports lost all significance. Academic funding no longer held any weight. Basic existence became the only priority.
“I constantly convinced myself it was a passing phase,” he confessed. “Just a couple of seasons. Perhaps a full twelve months.”
“What happened next?”
“Next thing I knew, I blinked and I was fifty years old.”
He delivered the line with a chuckle, yet the humor was completely absent.
He took on every labor gig imaginable. Storage facilities. Courier routes. Hospital assistance. Building repairs. Coffee shop duty. Anything that covered the lease and funded his mom’s treatments. Somewhere in between, he destroyed his joint, yet continued grinding on it until the damage was irreversible.
“How is your mother doing?” I inquired.
“Breathing just fine. Still extremely demanding.”
