#12: The Sign

The sign was inviting. Lit dimly, filtered through a foggy night, it seemed to say finally so so many ways to him.

He walked in and scanned the room, looking through thick clouds of smoke being blown from tables. He walked to the back of the room and addressed a man sitting behind a tall desk.

"Where is he?"

"He's here," the man said. "I'll write down your name, you can take a seat."

"How long?"

The man scanned a list in front of him. "Long. Very long. There are drinks, though there's nothing to eat.

He took a seat on a long bench being shared by a dozen other people, all drinking, smoking, or both. He spoke to the woman beside him, "How long have you waited?"

"I'm not sure," she said. She looked into the air as if for the answer. "I'm not sure," she repeated. "It doesn't matter, though, does it?"

He joined the conversations of the others. He had a drink that was cold, sweet, and smelled like cinnamon. They sang. They told stories; each person had come from so far away. After maybe hours, there was a lull in the revelry. He turned to the woman next to him again. "What do you hope to get from talking to him?"

She had an absent look in her eyes. "Some kind of redemption?" She said.

He nodded. He drank again and sang.

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