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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