Just a Stranger on the Bus

He sits alone on a park bench, white-haired, white-bearded, in a white suit that has seen better decades, never mind better days. He sits alone until another comes, in equally faded evening finery, and sits beside him with a sigh.

“I had not thought to see you here,” says the newcomer.

“Come to savor your victory?”

“What victory?” snorts his companion. “I came to admit defeat. It’s still you they love.”

The white one is silent for an eternity, before replying. “They murdered my son,” he says, and dabs his eyes with a white handkerchief gone ivory with age. The other is silent, head bowed, hands clasped across his lap. “Do not pretend sympathy. You never liked him much.”

“I was once your favorite,” the other says, reproachfully. “You seem remarkably unlucky in your fatherly affections. If I didn’t know better, I’d accuse you of doing it deliberately.”

The old man is silent, crumpled kerchief forgotten in his hand. 

“Come on,” says the other, standing and extending a hand. “I’ll walk you home.”

Watery, wounded eyes slowly focus on the fingers. “I disowned you.”

“You can change your mind. If you can’t, then who can?”

“No, not home.” A shake of the head. Home is the place his son isn’t. “I’m ... tired of it.”

“All right, not home,” the other agrees. “Someplace else. Far away.”

And together, the two old men leave the park behind.