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They sat in silence. The shadow of the oak tree moved from the bench leg to the crack. It took fifty-one minutes. Neither of them said a word about it.

Then there was Eugene. Eugene had been a carpenter. Now he was a collector of lost things. Not valuables—lost things. A single glove on a park bench. A button from a stranger’s coat. A grocery list dropped in a parking lot. He kept them in labeled Ziploc bags. His entertainment was narrative. He would take a lost item and invent the tragedy or comedy that led to its abandonment. “Tuesday’s glove,” he’d say, holding up a stained workman’s glove, “belongs to a man named Frank. Frank is fleeing a second marriage. He threw the glove as a decoy so his new wife would think he went left. He went right.” old men gangbang

Bernard snorted. Eugene smiled. Carla poured the coffee without being asked. Eleven seconds on the dot. They sat in silence

The Golden Grip

Not for leaves or birds. For the shadow. They timed how long it took the shadow to move from the bench’s left leg to the crack in the concrete two feet away. Bernard said fifty-three minutes. Arthur said forty-eight. Eugene said it didn’t matter because the sun was a liar and time was a human mistake. They argued for twenty minutes. That was the point. Neither of them said a word about it