“How do you do?” I asked.
“Very well, thank you,” he said.
Two decades of mutual hatred is no reason for poor manners.
“I don’t suppose you came for nostalgia’s sake,” I said.
He pushed the door to the living room. It swung back, dangling from one hinge. I followed him in, taking in the peeling wallpaper and bare floorboards. We both stopped to stare at the corner. Someone had taken the threadbare sofa we’d both shared with the woman who entered our friendship like an axe enters a branch.
But you know that. You split us in two when you moved into that house. For twenty years, you’ve kept us poised on the brink of that rift, as unable to step back from it as we were to cross it.
“Here,” I said.
“Yes,” he said. “It can only be here.”
We shook hands.
As it’s me telling you this and not him, you’ve already guessed the rest.
You might at least shed a tear for him.
The burning question:
What reply does the narrator deserve? Please share your thoughts in the comments.