Tom answered the knock on the door.

Tom: Hey, come on in Steve. I’ve been waiting for you.

Tom shuts the door, and motions Steve to follow him.

Tom: Let’s have a drink in my office.

Tom walks slowly, with a limp.

Steve: It’s awfully dim in here, what happened to the lights?

Tom: The bulb went out in the hallway. Rosie will put new ones in tomorrow. She already went home for the day.

Tom enters the office, and Steve follows.

Tom: Take a seat old friend. I’ll pour you a scotch… neat, the way you like it.

Steve sits on the sofa while Tom shuffles across the room to the bar. He takes out two high ball glasses and poured the scotch in. He hands one glass to his friend, and then sits in a chair.

Tom: We’ve been friends for forty four years. College roommates, we met our wives at the same party, best man at my wedding. We’ve had some good times. Your friendship meant a lot to me over the years.

Steve: Hey, you’re not dying or anything? Because it sounds like some kind of an epiphany.

Tom: No, I just wanted to have a drink with my oldest and dearest friend. My Susan has been gone a year today, and I was strong enough to go through her things. She kept journals through the years. It was her private thoughts, and I struggled with myself over if I should read them. I read them all. Forty years of the good ole days. But they were better for you, because you had your wife and mine.

Tom sips his drink.

Steve: What? Wait, I can explain.

Tom: I’m not interested in explanations.

Tom pulls a gun out the cushion of the chair and shoots his friend in the chest.

Tom finishes the last of his drink, sits it on the table, and leaves the room.


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