The Here and There of a Wandering Mind
A short story.
“Everything is finite,” he says as he cuts the fresh loaf into tiny pieces. “Even this, here.” He takes a chunk and crumbles it in his hand. “See?” He stares at me with grey eyes and a lopsided smile. “See?” He askes again. But it is not a question. I nod.
We were on the pavilion, walking in circles. The evening sun paints warm pinks and calming…