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the bar, one of them at one table, the other one at the

other, they drank their beer and read the newspaper. And

each time they’d put it back where they got it. They needed

eyeglasses to read now, and they weren’t that steady on

their feet. But neither of them would give the paper to the

other one when he was done with it. Then they’d finish

their beer, one of them would leave and the other one

would leave right after. All those years, neither of them said

so much as:

“Here, here’s your paper.”

That one sentence might have been enough. Because who

knows if with that single sentence they wouldn’t have said

everything they hadn’t said to each other all those years.

You can fit an awful lot into one sentence. Maybe

everything. Maybe a whole lifetime. A sentence is the

measure of the world, a philosopher once said. That’s right,

the same one. I sometimes wonder if the reason we have to

say so many words throughout our life might be in order

for that one sentence to emerge from among them. What

sentence? Everyone has their own. One that you could utter

in a fit of despair and not be lying. At least to yourself.

If only you’d known the Priest. You know, the welder. I

couldn’t tell you. I don’t even know what his first name was.

Everyone always just said, the Priest. His first name and last

name got lost somewhere along the way. You know what,

you even resemble him a bit, now that I look at you. Hand