He waited, as he always waited; days, months, maybe years. He couldn’t remember anymore. So much he couldn’t remember.
And yet, he remembered the street. So much had changed in the time he’d sat on his bench, through rain and snow, winter and spring, hot and cold. Days blurred together into one endless, continuous, Monday.
Mike’s Sub Shoppe. Long gone. Mike died, he’d heard, left nobody who wanted his business. MacLaree’s. Burned up inside, but none of the surrounding building had caught flame. Now abandoned.
Pete’s Newstand, on the end of the block, sold. Seven times until the final owner ran it into the ground. Didn’t much need papers or magazines these days. Everything was online.
Everything but Mike and his sign. He’d never changed, not his orange vest or black hat, relics from another age.
He lifted his sign as a crowd of daily walkers neared.
‘Peggy, come home.’
Watched as the carefully penned letters faded and ran, cardboard crumbling in the sudden onslaught of rain.