A faint groan escapes his body, rises, and then dissipates into the cold lonely air around him like a vapor. The muscle and sinew that coil throughout his body tighten and contract as he fights the pull of the Earth against his frame. He advances out of his seated repose and into an upright standing position while decisively reaching back with one hand to touch the backrest of the bench; the wood is warm where he had been sitting. This curious behavior seems more like a salute to an old friend than an attempt at supporting himself - he is a man, but not an old man. Yes, he pats the bench a couple of times before he retracts his arm and starts down the path. His stead is slow, but deliberate. “The rain is coming soon”, he thinks to himself…he can feel it in the air.
SHORT STORY BY CHRIS BEST
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