I had not expected to see him, again. After all these years, I would have settled for a postcard or a mention in a dusty scrap of newspaper… Hell, after so many decades of best-friend-neglect, I would have settled for an invite to his funeral.
But there he was, like some ghost emerging from the other side of an improbability wormhole. A dusty tableau designed to shock you into immobility.
It took me a couple if open-mouthed minutes to clock that he was speaking.
“Phil?” I stuttered.
He took in my dark blue suit, the soft leather shoes, the well-worn leather bag containing all I needed for an overnighter in Santiago.
I gazed at his craggy face; sporting an ancient helmet that looked like it lived up there. But then something familiar about the bike drew my eye – a pre-unit BSA that…
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