Tom

Once the day started, Eli could not ever remember why he was so afraid of it. Something about hours not yet lived instilled a sense of angst inside the darker corners of his mind. He shuffled his feet towards the cabinet. There were six mugs. Six separate pieces of ceramic, six separate stories, six containers. However, five were just ordinary. There was one scratched, cream clad potter's work which whispered distinct longings of use. That was Tom's mug. Eli had stole it from the town's diner. Tom was one of a band of starstruck boys who never could stay in one place for long. He could have been just a passerby, but Eli knows better. 

The bench was where they first met. If Eli had not wished so hard to forget the weight of the day, he might not ever have walked past the bench where Tom sat smoking the last of two cigarettes. He was a tall, lanky sort of fellow with a twinkle in his eye and a bushy head of hair tucked under a trucker hat. 

"I have one left," he said throwing an arm in Eli's direction. 

"Thanks, I don't smoke," replied Eli shrugging apologetically. 

"Sure ya do!" started Tom. "I hear this is the town where everyone smokes." 

Eli had no idea where Tom heard this falsehood, but the morning had already started calling to Eli, and he did not want to answer. 

"Not everybody," Eli grabbed the remaining cigarette. Tom held his hand out and lit up Eli's reluctant choice of stress relief. 

"Tom," he said. 

"Eli," replied his bench companion.

"Small towns never are what they seem," Tom smiled. He glanced at his watch and lifted his head toward the sky. His stream of smoke nearly covered the patch of sky reaching through the ominous street trees. 

Eli let the smoke fill up his lungs and blew it out. "Small towns will never tell you who they are," Eli's voice cracked. 

"How about the folks in them?" asked Tom. 

"Folks make up towns," Eli shot back with a raised eyebrow and an honest gaze. Tom clarified, "I mean, don't you have something to say about your town?" 

The nighttime chill set into Eli's knees as he inhaled his cigarette stronger. "This town doesn't know me, why would I have anything to say about it?" Eli sighed. 

"We all have something to say," Tom replied, "It may not seem worth saying because we aren't used to being listened to."

Eli took a deep breath and exhaled sharply. "Look mister, I appreciate the cigarette, but I'm not in the mood for conversation about me or about this town or anything." 

Tom inhaled one last time, then putting out his cigarette, he stared straight into Eli's eyes and said, "If you don't mind me saying, I think you need to talk more than you think." With that Tom stood up, tipped his hat, and wandered into the night. 

Alone with his thoughts, Eli thought of the morning, of what the next day would bring. He dreaded pretending to be fine one more day. He dreaded the monotony of another day of seemingly meaningless actions whose sum represented so little. So little. Somehow the dread clouding his mind gave way to the screams of his heart to be listened to. Eli sprang up and looked for Tom at the end of the street. Tom was walking into the town's late night diner. Eli emulated Eric Little only in his determination to get to the diner quickly. He spotted Tom sitting in a booth studying a menu. Pretending not to pant, Eli stood over Tom looking directly in his eyes. "I'll talk if you'll listen."

Tom smiled and waved his hand invitingly towards the other side of the booth. Eli sat down. Tom set his menu down, paused to sip out of a scratched, cream colored mug, and said "I'm listening."