“Would you like something to drink?”

“Sure. That’d be great.” Of course it would. We’d just biked to the neighboring city and back. I could’ve just poured him a glass of icewater, but no. Me and my formalities.

I was pondering this when the blue glass slipped from my sweaty hand. I robotically reached for the dustpan and broom.

Ever the observer, Mick stated, rather than asked, “This happens often.”

“I told you. I’m a klutz.” I shrugged, laughing at myself.

I moved to discard the shards of translucent glass, when Mick gently stopped my arm and looked, seriously (odd for him) into my eyes. “May I have them?”

“Why?” I asked. Futilely. Mick never answered those types of questions. With a sigh, I answered, “Sure.”

So I wrapped them up, he went home, and then two summers, 11 bikerides, and 4 glasses later, I recieved an email. “Meet me.” I knew where. How predictable we had become in our friendship.

So I made my way toward the tree in the yard of the elementary school we’d both attended.