The bench had been warm
for an hour before Eli
sat down. He didn't
know what he was waiting
for — only that the
waiting itself had become
a kind of presence,
something he carried in
his chest like a second
heartbeat that wouldn't
sync with the first.
A pigeon landed near his
feet, pecked at nothing,
and left. Eli watched it
go. He thought about
following it. He thought
about a lot of things.
The afternoon light turned
gold, then amber, then
indifferent. He stayed.
Sometimes, he decided,
not moving is its own
kind of arriving.