Any Day Now
A eulogy for a friendship
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Copyright ©2025 Preston Pairo.
In standard book form, this story would be approximately 18 pages long.
“Oh, not again.” Young Omar (young compared to most of his Boomer Falls Diner patrons) sighs with condolence, seeing the three lifelong friends seated in their favorite booth are wearing black.
“Afraid so.” Lotti, the sportiest dresser of the trio, has on a black blazer and high waist pants with wide legs about which there had been some discussion with her husband, Augustus, as to whether the look might not be funeral proper. (Mostly that discussion had been Lotti thinking out loud while Augustus listened, but damned if Lotti was going to ask ChatGPT {although she’s been doing more of that at the insistence of her grandchildren, albeit at the mocking of her two daughters, who laugh that Lotti’s liable to end up on the dark web with all the organ thieves and hitmen, the idea of which Lotti admits to no one she finds rather exciting.})
“And this one was even worse than usual,” Clara mourns. “Not someone old like us, but one of their children.” She omits the detail that their friend’s deceased son was probably about Young Omar’s age, figuring he has enough worries running this diner, why darken that with reminders of mortality?
“How awful.” Handsome Young Omar shakes his head. “You girls have had a rough day.”
They adore that he calls them girls, which his father used to do back when they really were girls and he barked that they were too young to drink coffee but served it to them anyway when they sat in this same booth with their high school textbooks open on the table, pretending to study.
Young Omar asks if it was someone he knew.
Lucy says the name, adding that the family wasn’t from Boomer Falls, then adds, “It wasn’t suicide.”
“Lucy,” Clara scolds in her retired schoolteacher manner, so used to trying to maintain order it’s reflexive.
“What? People were whispering it.”
“That doesn’t make it right,” Clara reminds, then tells Young Omar, “He was feeling perfectly fine. He went down to the basement and was at his workbench. And fell over dead.”
“People do think suicide when they hear something like that,” Lucy says.
“Who thinks that?” Clara wants to know.
“It was the first thing Frank said when I told him. He said, he bet it was really a suicide.”
“Of course, Frank said that.” Clara shakes her head.
Frank is Lucy’s husband, who is sitting in a booth at the opposite end of the diner with Lotti’s Augustus and Clara’s husband, Stirling.
After years of taking up one of the diner’s few larger tables, and having to pretend to be interested in their spouses’ conversation, the girls once used to their advantage that no six-top was available, whereupon they suggested separate booths, split up with husbands in one booth and wives in the other, and have continued the habit ever since, claiming it’s helping Young Omar, when, in fact, it’s helping them.
The husbands have never complained about the segregation, although Augustus used to moan to Lotti about having to put up with the “idiot things Frank tends to say,” and wondered how the bank Frank runs managed to attract any customers given his coarse manner.
As to the cause of their friend’s son’s untimely death, Clara firmly assures Young Omar, “It was an aneurism.”
“Not like we’re going to see a death certificate,” Lucy says somewhat under her breath. Most of the time she lets it slide when her friends complain about Frank, but now and then enough of him has worn off on her that she finds herself sounding like him. A long marriage will do that.
Lotti, meanwhile, has fallen into a stare at the linoleum tabletop. She says, “Any day now it’s going to be one of us.”
Young Omar steps back as if electrocuted—his heritage sensitive to curses and premonitions. “Don’t say that.”
“It’s true.” The recent death has taken a heavier toll on Lotti than her friends. “It used to be exciting when the phone rang. Was it a friend wanting to go to the movies? A boy asking us out? Now, it’s who died or is in the hospital. Or is it the doctor’s office with test results? Although it’s never the doctor. Always the secretary. And if it looks like you might live, the secretary tells you what this or that count was. Although it makes no sense, so you check the internet—even though the sign in the treatment room warns you not to. And the internet scares you half to death. Of course, if the secretary tells you the doctor wants to talk to you, you know that’s bad. Because now the test results—which you still won’t understand and no one, especially the doctor, is going to explain to you—mean something is wrong or might be wrong. Which means here comes more tests. Which they can’t schedule for six months. Which means whatever time you have left…? A big chunk of it, maybe all if it, is going to be spent worrying about this test.” And with that, Lotti drops her forehead onto the table.
Lucy gently rubs her friend’s back.
Young Omar knows what to do. With confidence, he says, “I have Boston Cream Pie.”
Forehead still on the table, Lotti says, “Club sandwich first please.”
“Light mayo, crisp bacon.” Young Omar knows their preferences.
It’s a Denver omelette for Lucy with an English muffin and the fruit cup (which she doesn’t mind comes out of a gallon can off a food service truck and finds the syrupy consistency nostaligic). When Clara can’t decide between a tuna melt on rye or chicken soup, Lucy tells her, “Not another diet,” which is something Lucy’s husband, Frank would say, and Clara ignores her, which is what friends do when other friends fall under the influence of their insensitive husbands.
As Young Omar retreats to the kitchen to put in their orders, Lucy continues to rub Lotti’s back until Lotti raises up and exhales and begins to sweep her hair from her face and notices four, five, no six of her hairs on the table, which she balls up in a paper napkin and, despite the fact that the sun is shining and it’s a glorious day weatherwise, says, “I think I’m going bald.”
“You’re not going bald,” Lucy says.
Clara focuses on Lotti’s hairline as if the opposite might be true.
Lotti straightens the front of her blazer and after a moment says, “I can’t imagine losing a child. Everyone says it’s unnatural for a child to die first. But it’s worse than that. Unnatural is too weak a term.”
“Saddistic,” Clara offers, then reconsiders. “No. Devastating. Devastating,” she decides.
“How can you ever be the same?” Lotti wonders.
Clara shakes her head. “You won’t be.”
“It’s why we never had children,” Lucy says. “That, and a thousand other reasons.”
They fall into a brief silence, their lives soundtracked by the Boomer Falls Diner in its usual mid-afternoon lull between lunch and dinner. There’s the clatter of glasses, dishes, and flatware; the rustle of a newspaper being folded by a man at the counter like it’s a 1960’s movie. The girls can’t overhear whatever their husbands are talking about—and it looks like Frank is dominating the conversation, going on and on, no doubt, about the latest thing that irks him (the options of which history has proven to be endless).
“When one of us goes,” Lotti says darkly, “assuming it’s not me, I’ll never be able to come in here again. It will be too sad.”
Lucy is quick to respond, “Well if I go first, I want you to still come here. Just pretend it’s like when Frank and I are away on vacation.” Lucy and Frank take a lot of vacations.
Lotti shakes her head of stylish hair. “We won’t be able to text you like when you’re away.”
“Just pretend. And think about all the wonderful times we’ve had here—that we’ve had together.”
“I do that now,” Lotti confesses. “And sometimes it’s so painful … it puts this empty ache right here.” She presses a balled fist against her belly. “I realize it’s all gone. We’ll never feel the way we used to. Never do what we used to. All we can do is remember.”
Clara, staring unfocused at the far wall, says, “We should have gone to Mexico.” She manages a smile. “Remember? We were seventeen. And instead of going to college … we were going to go to Mexico. That was before they called it a gap year.”
Lucy nods. “I still have that Acapulco travel poster. I unroll it every now and then.”
Clara recalls, “We were going to drink Tequilla on the beach. Although one of us probably would have thrown up.” She looks at Lucy, who did just that after two shots of Ole Tequilla at a Halloween party when they were seniors in high school. “Your motorcycle boyfriend was all for it,” she reminds Lotti. “He was going to teach us to ride, and we’d be off to Mexico on Harleys.”
Lotti says, “I hate being old. I hate everything about it.”
“Except the alternative,” Lucy points out, which is another Frank-ism.
Clara isn’t sold on Lotti’s logic and begins to cross-examine her: “So you’d like to go back … be young again … and worry about your major … and what kind of job you’re going to get … and getting pregnant, or not … and worry about your parents getting divorced or getting old … and having kids, and whether the kids were going to be healthy … and buying a house … and could you afford health insurance … and was there going to be a nuclear war? Shall I go on?”
“I still worry about all that. Most of that. And now there’s more to worry about.”
“You’re not into aging gracefully then?” Clara assumes.
“We could still ride motorcycles to Mexico,” Lucy laughs.
It’s the spirit of her friends that allows Lotti to summons the courage necessary to deny the odds and reality, whereupon she pounds both fists on the table and declares, “No, I’m not aging gracefully. I’m going out swinging.”
It’s his wife’s combative banging on the table that alerts Augustus, who looks along the length of the diner toward her. His eyesight remains decent enough that he can see her smile reassuringly at him, which is a relief, because ever since her friend’s son died, Lotti has fallen into a bit of a low spell.
Augustus hopes being with her old girlfriends will wedge her out of it. He’s been attempting all his usual ways of bringing her around but knows sometimes he can’t force the issue and has to allow time to try its healing measures. It will be nice if her smile is a positive sign.
Meanwhile, across the table from Augustus, Frank mutters, “Any day now,” wondering when someone is going to come and take their order, and grouses it’s probably Claw Girl, which is what Frank calls the waitress he doesn’t like and frequently complains about to Young Omar because of her long paste-on fingernails painted with sparkles Frank claims gets in his food.
Then Frank goes back to haranguing about those “pickpockets at Marriott”, which is a regular Frank diatribe, and involves Frank dialing up the vitriol how he is an Ambassader level Bonvoy member and a Chairman’s Club owner, neither of which means anything to Augustus, but is clearly relevant to Frank’s contempt for the international hospitality company to which he pays tens of thousands of dollars every year.
Frank may have a point—he makes it sound as if he has a point—but Frank can be very convincing. His manner is nothing short of field-general authoritative. If Frank is in a meeting or attends a party, regardless of how many others are in attendance, everyone there, if asked later, will be able to confirm Frank was present, and they will probably be able to recite something he said, and may recall being intimidated by him not just because of his overwhelming persona but because he is a large man, over six-two, with broad shoulders, powerful arms, and perfectly barbered dark hair flecked with grey.
Stirling, seated next to Augustus, is Frank’s opposite. If Stirling was at the same hypothetical party/meeting, even someone who spent the duration of the gathering alongside him might not remember Stirling was there. Or if asked, might respond, “Oh, was that the slender bald fellow who didn’t say much and looked like he might be ill?”
Stirling is actually in fine health, although you wouldn’t know if from the worrying texts he sends Augustus late at night. A stellar CPA, Stirling is the hard-working nuts-and-bolts partner of a successful small firm he founded. He reviews every tax return that goes out the door, while his partner is more of a Frank type, the gregarious one who conducts seminars and takes people to lunch, which brings in new business.
Augustus is somewhere between the two. At any event he attends, Augustus will be fondly remembered by everyone he speaks with, perhaps not by name if they just met, but surely by his pleasant and easy-going manner, which will cause some to be surprised to learn that he enjoyed a three-decade-plus career as a mechanical engineer, a job which seems more depersonalized than human. Then they discover Augustus has two daughters who adore him, and realize, well, that explains it.
While whoever their waitress will be remains among the missing, Frank, who occupies more than his fair share of space, spreads his arm and continues to rail against Marriott.
The uncompromising man’s demonstrative manner is why Stirling and Augustus always sit opposite him. Without homicidal intent, Frank could innocently crush someone seated alongside him, which makes it a marvel he hasn’t accidentally bull-in-a-china-shop mowed over his slender wife during the most basic of husband and wife activities, let alone having sex—which might explain their childless union were it not for the fact Frank hates children, and if he wasn’t rampaging about Marriott would likely report a recent hateful crossing of paths with an obnoxious child whose self-centered indulgent parents chose to take said brat to a place where Frank had a reasonable expectation of peace and quiet. Then again, Lucy has known since she was ten that she didn’t want kids and won bets with Lotti and Clara who wagered Lucy’s biological clock would cause her to change her mind.
Frank’s latest tirade against Marriott turns out to involve the company’s asinine (per Frank) policy as to awarding (or not in Frank’s case) a hotel stay credit, the accumulation of which leads to, as best as Augustus follows, some level of prestige and some freebies the value of which Augustus doesn’t think worth worrying about but is clearly important to Frank.
It boils down to overlapping stays when Frank and Lucy book and pay for two different Marriott places for the same night when they take their annual driving trip to Florida.
“What we do,” Frank endeavours to explain to the disinterest of Augustus and Stirling, “is reserve two different hotels in two different locations for the same night so when we drive from one Marriott place to the next, we can come and go based on the weather. If it’s pouring in Hilton Head, let’s say, we can stay in Raleigh an extra day and hope the weather clears. Mind you we’re paying to be in two places at once, which is a waste of money, but it beats driving I-95 in a monsoon.
“Now,” Frank continues, getting to the crux of how he feels slighted, “even though we’re paying for two places, those Marriott thieves only give us one night’s credit in their frequent traveller program—Bonvoy they call it, which I figure means bon voyage to your money. And if the reservations are for say two weeks at one place and four weeks at another, and those reservations overlap by even one night, they only give us credit for the two-week stay or the four-week stay, even though we paid or used points for a total of six weeks.” If Frank was squeezing a grapefruit, it would explode. “They must spend more time trying to figure ways to screw you than any other company I’ve ever dealt with.”
Augustus finds himself barely able to feign interest, let alone follow what Frank accuses.
Fortunately, Jenny appears to take their order.
A 55-year-old country woman missing teeth in a few prominent places, Frank calls her Smiley and in turn she calls him Moose. She could probably go a few rounds with Frank in the ring and even longer in a street fight with no referee. Frank, always a generous tipper, is the most generous with Jenny.
When Frank orders a cholesterol mind-bending three fried eggs over very easy with sausage links, grits, and red eye gravy, Jenny says, “One death by fat for the Moose,” then asks Augustus, “And what can we do you for?”
Augustus opts for the chicken avocado club.
Stirling orders a hot tea, nothing else, which causes Jenny to kindly inquire, “Tummy upset?”
“Acid reflux.”
“No surprise, honey, the company you keep.” She whacks Frank’s solid arm with a menu like a bossy sister.
Frank waits until Jenny retreats then leans forward, elbows of his custom-tailored suit jacket on the table, and in a low voice says, “What’s going on, Stir? You’ve said next to nothing all goddamned day?”
“It’s a sad time. A boy died.”
For a moment, Frank’s blank reaction makes it seem he’s forgotten he was just at a funeral, then he squints and asks, “The kid who committed suicide? I though you said you didn’t know him.”
“I didn’t know him, but he was Clara’s friend’s only son. And he didn’t commit suicide, he had an aneurism.”
“Right,” is Frank’s reply, his tone of voice straddling the line between agreement and doubt.
“It’s just left me … uneasy. It could have been us. It could have been…” Stirling can’t bring himself to say his own son’s name.
“But it wasn’t,” Frank replies directly, almost scoldingly.
“And why wasn’t it, Frank? You always have all the answers. You tell me how someone’s son got chosen to die?”
Augustus is taken back because it’s not like Stirling to be confrontational.
“I can’t tell you why, Stir. Because I don’t know. But, bottom line, it wasn’t your boy put in the ground today. Or either of your girls.”
Stirling stiffens at that imagery and Augustus moves to intercede on behalf of their sensitive friend. “Come on, Frank.”
Frank says nothing but looks at Stirling in that penetrating way he has, a man used to directing his educated and confident employees through periods of crisis or success. And although Frank has no children, many of his employees are younger than children he and Lucy would now have had they started a family in their twenties, even in their thirties.
Augustus becomes concerned that Stirling might start to cry and worries he’s failed to appreciate how a young man’s death has affected his friend, who he texts with most every night. “Do you want to go outside?” he asks Stirling. “Take a walk?” Get away from Frank is what Augustus is tempted to say.
Stirling shakes his head.
Frank reaches across the table and places his big hand on Stirling’s slender forearm. “You’re alright, Stir. Everything’s alright.”
Augustus is surprised by Frank’s show of compassion, and is searching for a way to express his appreciation when Stirling suddenly changes the subject and out of the blue, almost in a whisper, says:
“A tax client admitted to me that his company, a defense contractor, picked up a fairly rudimentary code in the social media posts of a certain volatile politician. And the code tips when the politician is about to post a comment or make an announcement likely to send the stock or crypto markets reeling one way or the other.”
“What do you mean tips?” Augustus asks.
Frank, already ahead of the game as he often is when it comes to money, says, “He means let people who are in on the code know what’s coming so they can make market moves and clean up. This is a serious allegation, Stir. What’s your client intend to do about it?”
Stirling slightly cocks his head and raises his eyebrows.
Frank’s eyes narrow. He keeps his voice very low, very serious. “And your client … in case you didn’t believe him, or to show off … told you the code. Right?”
Stirling says nothing.
Frank continues, “And now you’ve followed the politician’s posts … and sure enough…”
Augustus feels two steps behind the conversation but is more interested to catch up than when Frank was Marriott moaning, especially when Frank says, “You know it’s illegal.”
“Who’s going to find out?”
“Don’t be a fool,” Frank warns in a low growl like a territorial Doberman. “You don’t sleep now, how’re you going to feel knowing any day the feds could lock you up for insider trading? Which is what you’re talking about. This is the SEC, Stir, not the IRS looking for penalties and interest because one of your tax clients puffed up their business expenses.”
Augustus begins to feel anxious. “What are you talking about, Frank?”
“He’s already done it.” Frank nods at their longtime friend, the three of them bound by the shared histories of their spouses. Friends-in-law they sometimes refer to one another.
“Done what?” Augustus asks.
“It’s why he can’t eat.” Frank visually bears down on Stirling. “How much?” he asks.
Stirling looks around, making sure the seats around them remain unoccupied. He needs to swallow the dryness from his throat before he says, “Ten grand,” then quickly amends, “but I’ve made similar trades not linked to the code and am up and down. So maybe only nine grand now is what I’m up.”
“And you think these other trades will fool the SEC? That they haven’t seen that before?” Frank, in addition to his master’s in economics, has a law degree from Georgetown. “You want to avoid the SEC, lose the rest of the nine grand and then some. Because not only can’t you cook like Martha Stewart you sure as hell aren’t going to be able to serve time like her.”
Augustus realizes now what Stirling has done and not only can’t believe it but is scared. Not just for the peril Stirling has put himself in, but that his conduct is so, so out of character it must mean something has fundamentally changed in his friend’s core.
Stirling becomes unexpectedly contentious with Frank. “You wouldn’t have done the same thing?”
“I’m CEO of a publicly-traded bank that’s gone through three mergers with other banks. I could have used that knowledge to make myself—or either of you two—hundreds of thousands of dollars. Millions.”
Stirling promptly counters: “But that would have been suspicious because you’re part of the bank. I’m just a guy with no contact to this politician. I didn’t even vote for him. Who’s to say I even read his posts let alone know about any code. Or maybe I do read the posts and the content has me guessing which way the politician might be leaning. What he’s about to say or do.”
Frank is shaking his head. “Not how it works, Stir. Because you do know the code. Because whoever—some NSA contractor buddy—told you. And he told who knows how many other people, one of whom will eventually blab and the whole shooting match blows up. What got into you?” Frank is genuinely concerned, because above all else, even his size, Frank is a good friend who will do anything for you, any time, anywhere, and never expect anything in return other than a thank you. Frank does like a thank you.
Stirling is trying to appear stalwart, but Augustus senses quiet tremors resonating from his accountant friend’s slender frame, as if he knows he has crossed a line that offers no path of retreat.
“I followed it for a few months,” Stirling says, “the social media posts. And did nothing. Then, Andrew died.”
Frank says, “The funeral we just went to?”
Stirling nods.
“Some thirty-year-old kills himself and you go nuts?”
“He didn’t kill himself. He had an aneurism.”
Stirling says that so sharply Augustus is afraid their wives might overhear, and he doesn’t want to have to explain this conversation to Lotti.
“So what?” Frank speaks in that controlled voice that can take over a conference room.
“You don’t have children Frank, you don’t understand.”
“No, I don’t understand.” Frank’s words come slowly, each sentence like the stride of a stern father marching up the stairs to deal with his misbehaving boys. “I don’t care if the kid got hit with a meteor. I’m sorry the boy died—however he died. But you’re 64-years-old. You’ve lived an admirable life. You’ve got a successful business. A lovely wife. Three great kids. You want piss on that for a lousy ten grand. What the f—?” Frank suddenly puts up his large hands and sits back. Fortunately, no one is seated in the booth behind him, or they’d get whiplash.
Stirling says, “It’s not fair, Frank. It’s not right, having a child die.”
“I’m not saying another word,” Frank appears to surrender.
Stirling tilts forward. “And when something like this happens, when you see someone lose a child like this, and know it could have been you, and maybe next time it will be you, you want to rebel. You want to kick fate’s ass. You want to do something that gives you the advantage instead of having it taken from you. You see power being abused, and instead of being abused by it, you use it.”
Frank is nodding, but in a frightening whisper says, “It’s not worth going to jail for.”
To which Stirling, with greater confidence than Augustus has ever seen him exert, says, “No one’s going to jail.” And then Stirling says something which makes no sense, so he repeats it, something about a sequence of letters after the third period in a social media post.
Then Augustus realizes: it’s the code. And now he and Frank know it, too.
Stirling says, “Next time we sit here, tell me you didn’t use it.”
Frank says, “I can tell you now.”
“No,” Stirling insists, “tell me then.”
In bed that night, Lotti reads on her Kindle while Augustus tries to distract himself from the day’s unnerving events with a word game on his phone.
“What was Frank so wound up about at the diner today?” Lotti asks.
Augustus wants to tell her about Stirling, but he won’t. Although he should, shouldn’t he? But Lotti would tell Clara. And maybe she should. But then Stirling would never speak to him again and Augustus would miss him. But he already misses Stirling, who Stirling used to be, who he thought Stirling was before admitting today what he’d done. So instead of telling Lotti any of that, Augustus says, “Marriott.”
“Again with Marriott?” Lotti has heard Frank’s complaints so often they’re burned into her brain. “How those timeshares are the worst financial decision he ever made? And the maintenance fees are astronomical. And he can’t sell them. And his nieces and nephews don’t want to inherit them and tell him he was nuts to have bought it.”
“This was something about frequent flyer points. I can’t say I followed it all.”
“Well Lucy loves those timeshares. Especially the place we went to that time with them in Palm Beach. He gets rid of those timeshares she’ll throw him out.” Lotti sets aside her Kindle and reaches for her phone. She texts with fast thumbs that will create numerous typos which Siri—or whoever—will badly attempt to autocorrect, which will cause Lotti to cuss out Bill Gates and Jeff Bezos even though they are not a part of Apple, but she clumps them all in the same group anyway.
“One of the girls?” Augustus asks, thinking she’s messaging their daughters.
“No. Amy.” Amy is the friend whose son died. “See if she feels like talking.”
“Oh.” Augustus tries to concentrate on Quordle but his mind feels blocked, so he ends up on a different website that causes his pulse to dread-skip a little faster.
Waiting to see if Amy replies to her text, Lotti looks over at what Augustus is concentrating on. “Are you on X? Since when do you get on X? Who are you following?”
He shows her and shrugs as if needing to make an excuse.
Lotti hates politics so she makes a face as if she just fell headfirst into a dumpster of cow crap.
Augustus turns off his phone and places it easily on the nightstand. He knows the phone is durable but has always treated his possessions with care. He lies back and closes his eyes and pretends he’ll be able to sleep.
When Lotti’s phone pings with a text, she says, “Amy would like to talk. I’ll sit in the nook and close the door.”
“Okay,” Augustus replies, although he would rather Lotti stay in bed and maybe her conversation would distract him.
But she pads barefooted to the little sitting area where she used to seek refuge from the noise and mayhem of their girls when they were teenagers. Now, the girls are grown and have families of their own, and the whole house is quiet most all the time. Even their grandkids aren’t noisy anymore. Augustus misses the noise.
He turns onto one side, then the other, and neither is comfortable, so he switches his phone back on and looks at the most recent post of that politician whose outbursts direct government policy, put people out of work, cause health insurance premiums to skyrocket, and make the financial markets soar like a rocket or drop like a rock.
Augustus counts to the third period in the post and checks for a certain sequence of letters, and there it is: the code which tells him tomorrow is going to be a volatile day for chip stocks.
With Lotti on the other side of the door in her reading nook, talking with her friend who no longer has a son, Augustus calls Stirling, who as soon as he answers Augustus can tell is anxious.
Augustus says, “It will be okay, Stir, but don’t do it again. Don’t do it anymore. We’re not that kind of people. We’ve had it pretty good. We’ve worked hard, but we’ve had it pretty easy all in all.”
Stirling is quiet. Augustus hears him taking short breaths, then Stirling says, “I haven’t slept well in 15 years, Augie.”
“I know.”
“Fifteen years.”
“A long time,” Augustus agrees. “Maybe tonight.”
“Clara used to say that. She’d say any day now I’ll sleep like a baby… She doesn’t say that anymore.”
Augustus wants to tell Stirling he doesn’t want to lose him as a friend, the way he has lost so many friends over the years: some have died, but others grew apart in interests, or moved apart in miles, and Augustus has reached the age when it’s too hard to make new friends, to know someone long enough to have shared experiences and be able to talk about how things used to be because they were both there together. Worst of all, though, is when someone changes, when suddenly, one day without warning, something about them shifts and they’re no longer who they were yesterday, and before you know it that friend becomes a stranger. But instead of saying any of that, he tells Stirling, “Any day now, Stir. Any day now all the stuff that keeps you up at night…? You’ll see it isn’t anything to worry about after all. And you’ll sleep like a baby. Any day now.”
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Thanks, Jim. May our friendship never diminish because of miles or any other reason.
Very interesting and entertaining story. Nice job !!!