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“I haven’t had French toast in years. My dad really got into making BLTs on toasted tortillas every morning instead.” I kind of forgot French toast was even a thing, but that cinnamon smell restores many memories of eating breakfast across from Dad at our rickety table while we listened to the news or brainstormed lists he should write. “This is pretty perfect. Do you want some?”
Rufus nods, but doesn’t reach over to my plate. His mind is elsewhere as he plays around with his salad, seemingly disappointed and only eating the chicken. He drops his fork and grabs the notepad and pen Rae left behind. He sketches a circle, bold. “I wanted to travel the world taking photos.”
Rufus is drawing the world, outlining the countries he’ll never get to visit.
“Like a photojournalist?” I ask.
“Nah. I wanted to do my own thing.”
“We should go to the Travel Arena,” I say. “It’s the best way to travel the world in a single day. CountDowners speak highly of it.”
“I never read that stuff,” Rufus says.
“I read it daily,” I admit. “It’s comforting seeing other people breaking out.”
Rufus glances up from his drawing, shaking his head. “Your Last Friend is gonna make sure you go out with a bang. Not a bad bang, or a you-know-what bang, but a good bang. That made no sense.”
“I get it.” I think.
“What did you see yourself doing? Like, as a job?” Rufus asks.
“An architect. I wanted to build homes and offices and stages and parks,” I say. I don’t tell him how I never wanted to work in any of those offices, or that I’ve also dreamt of performing on a stage I’ve built. “I played with Legos a lot as a kid.”
“Same. My spaceships always came apart. Those smiling block-headed pilots never stood a chance.” Rufus reaches over and carves himself a piece of French toast and then chews it, savoring the bite with his head down and eyes closed. It’s hard watching someone swallow their favorite food one last time.
I have to get it together.
Things usually get worse before they get better, but today has to be the flip side.
Once our plates are clear, Rufus stands and gets Rae’s attention. “Could we get the check when you have a sec?”
“It’s on us,” Rae says.
“Please let us pay. It would mean a lot to me,” I say. I hope she doesn’t see it as a guilt card.
“Seconded,” Rufus says. Rufus may not be able to return here again, but we want to make sure they remain open for as long as possible for others, and money is how they pay the bills.
Rae nods vigorously, and she hands us a check. I hand her my debit card, and when she comes back, I tip her triple the inexpensive meal’s cost.
I have less than two thousand dollars after this debit charge. I may not be able to restart anyone’s life with this money, but every bit helps.
Rufus puts his drawing of the world inside his pocket. “Ready to go?”
I remain seated.
“Getting up means leaving,” I say.
“Yeah,” Rufus says.
“Leaving means dying,” I say.
“Nah. Leaving means living before you die. Let’s bounce.”
I stand, thanking Rae and the busboy and the host as we leave.
Today is one long morning. But I have to be the one who wakes up and gets out of bed. I look ahead at the empty streets, and I start walking toward Rufus and his bike, walking toward death with every minute we lose, walking against a world that’s against us.
RUFUS
