PERFECT ROUTINE
Archibald sat at the same table every day from 1 o'clock to 3 o'clock in the afternoon. The table was in a nice little brick plaza, right down in the heart of the city. Between 1 o'clock and 3 o'clock was easily his favorite time of day.
Sitting at that table allowed him to see what other people were doing with their lives. It was nice having that window into their lives. Since Isabel had passed on, he didn't have much of a life of his own. She had been his world, a beautiful light that radiated around him.
Archibald would often spend his afternoons reflecting back upon their life together. He would watch the pigeons pecking for scraps of food, their heads pistoning back and forth as they wandered about the plaza. He would watch stroller pushing mothers pause for a break on the rock wall that contained the garden's colorful bounty. He would get pulled into the staccato rhythm of the traffic as it stopped and started through the nearby traffic lights.
Sometimes he would pack a small lunch in a brown paper bag, usually a peanut butter sandwich, an apple, and some cheese. On Fridays, he would flip through the newspaper.
It was the same routine every day and 3 o'clock, he was stand up and wander back home, the ghosts of Isabel and his afternoon observances trailing in his wake.
It was a perfect routine.
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