Shared silence

He came late. The way he always did. Without pretense or apology. Without even ringing the bell. Just appeared suddenly in the chair saved for him most of the night. Appeared with a glass of wine in hand, story on the lips as if he had been present all evening. As if it were the rest of us who, somehow, had arrived late to him. Secretly we hated him for that. And still, we loved him dearly. These days his seat stays empty, but his glass , we make sure, is always full, just in case, he should find a way to join us, for one last joke, one last smile, one last moment of shared silence.