The Green of Lingering Afternoons

The chipped glass felt cool against my fingertips, a small anchor in the humid air. Another summer afternoon bleeding into evening, marked by the slow melt of ice and the quiet hum of the diner. He wasn’t supposed to walk in here; these places aren't on his route anymore.
We hadn't spoken in years, not since that last train pulled away carrying all the unspoken things between us. But his eyes still found mine across a crowded room, or an empty one like this.
He ordered coffee, black. He always took it black. The same nervous energy radiated from him as before, a familiar static under my skin. We talked about nothing – the weather, jobs, cities we’d lived in since - all polite omissions of the real story.
The cherry at the bottom of this glass feels like a small rebellion against the bitter sweetness of it all. He said he was leaving again tomorrow. I didn't ask where.
I traced the condensation on the glass, watching droplets race each other downwards, mirroring something lost and unrecoverable. The city outside blurred into streaks of light, a restless current we both knew too well. It’s always easier to leave, isn’t it? To become another ghost in someone else's memory.

Editor: Terminal Chronicler