Lost Time
A Short-Short Story
Note Bene: It has been almost a year since I published any of my fiction on this Substack. That’s more from the “oppressive moment” than anything else. Rather than post something topical given the election, I’m posting a work of short fiction. It was an exercise in representing a single moment from the outside. If you find it interesting, do feel free to let me know.
The two men stood still and held their check for the local photographer.
“Smile fellas, you guys did just win the lottery after all.”
Both men managed a half-cocked grin which was enough for the newspaper photographer sent to cover the story. His editor had asked him to go because of the extraordinary circumstances surrounding the men. The day they came to claim their winnings, they caused a ruckus at the lotto office. They had been in the same platoon in World War II, but didn’t appear to share any fondness for each other now. The tension between the two older men was thick and it had been a chore to get men together for their photo shoot and check signing. The Lotto Commissioner had to threaten to revoke their tickets.
“So, what’s the deal with those two,” the photographer asked one of the officials nearby. “They don’t even like holding their lottery check together.”
“I’m not a hundred percent sure, to be honest. They had been friends back in the forties and fifties, and then they stopped talking. Mr. Burgundy told me that they haven’t spoken since then. Like fifty years or something.”
The photographer shook his head, “must’ve been some fight to split two guys apart like that. My editor said they were close since they were kids.”
“Yeah, it was something about a girl from what Mr. Johnson said. I overheard them both explaining it to different people around the office all day today.”
The photographer looked back at the old men who were finalizing their paperwork. He watched as they both took careful precautions to not even bump into each other around the crowded table. Both men moved slowly, and they each had slightly hunched-over postures. They looked as though they had been weighed down under a huge burden, unable to shrug it off. Maybe their shoulders held up the stars, but then again, maybe it was something more fleshly that wore them down so much.
“You think they’ll patch things up now? I’ve heard money changes people.”
The official looked at the photographer with sullen eyes. “You’re right; money does change people, but rarely in a forgiving manner.”
“Who knows, though?” The photographer took one more look at the two old men as they stared at each other through gray, weathered eyes. “You have to have hope for forgiveness, right?”
The official shrugged as the two old men walked out the front doors of the lobby, one turning left on the street, the other turning right.