Sketch: Two men after breakfast

The tall man sits in his chair, his legs folded up like a grasshopper.  He laces his fingers together and sighs.  He is less than half his standing height as he sits in the chair.  His shirt hangs on his coathanger shoulders. The bones of his face stretch his dark skin taught over his cheekbones.

His eyes glisten with emotion as he talks about his son, long gone now.  He buried him 17 years ago where the mulberry trees edge the cemetery, and birds scream in the morning when the feral cats pick their way through the weeds.  The old clock on the wall is ticking slowly, as if counting every third second.  The refrigerator hums and clicks.

The tall man sits with his old friend. They have long silences between them that are comfortable. Their thoughts continue together when the words end.  They breathe in and make small sounds that neither one notices, digesting their breakfasts and clearing their throats or just punctuating the other's last sentence with a grunt quietly.

The phone rings and the tall man reaches his long arm over to it. His fingers lift it slowly and steadily off its cradle and he waits for the receiver to get to his ear, patiently.

"Yessir," he starts, his gaze drifting to the yard outside the screen door that's open to let in the warming summer air.  He holds the receiver with his long fingers pressing their tips against the plastic of the phone, lightly.  "Yessir," he says again and the hand retraces its path to set the receiver back down with a quiet click.

The other man has begun a habitual rubbing of his left hand on his knee.  The tall man looks at him.

"Knee again?"

"Huh?"

"Knee's giving you trouble, old man?"

"Who's on the phone just now?"

"Lawyer Maginnis, he says his name is.  Know him?  Says something has come across his desk and wonders if I'm able to come on down to his office and see about it."  The tall man frowns and his eyebrows bunch up, knitted like old wool.  Three of his fingers resting on the easy chair tap and then stop. He takes a deep breath, inhaling slowly and steadily so that his throat looks strained. He closes his eyes briefly as the deep breath overtakes him and then he lets it go and settles down.  The call has cleared his mind of his son and the memories that return every morning. It's a relief. His friend is watching him out of the corner of his eye.

"No idea," says the other.  "You have to go now?  What about Millie?  She's sleeping still?"

"Yessir.  You stay here till I get back?"

"I can."

"All right then."  The tall man gathers his feet under his legs and pushes up out of the chair.  He is well over six feet tall, and his face looks regal when he's standing. "All right then," he repeats, gathers his keys off the side table, shrugs into his windbreaker and walks out the door.  The screen bangs softly after him and then the house is quiet except for the ticking clock.