“Such a nice boy, that one,” Lucius, the older of two old men sitting in a downtown coffe shop, said.

“Who’er you on about now,” his friend, Mitchum, growled in reaction to the non-sequitor.

“Him,” he set his latte onto the table and shakely pointed across the street. A smartly dressed man got out of a luxury sedan.

Mitchum craned his neck to briefly look at the man walking briskly towards the gates of St. Thomas Cemetary. “Ugh, him again?” He now wagged his own gnarled finger, at his friend. “You’d think he was your own grandson how you prattle on every week about him.”

“But he does seem like such a good, lad,” his exasperation was only met by Mitchum’s rolling eyes. “We sit on our asses every week sipping our coffee and he, almost religously, visits that boneyard with no less than a dozen roses like clock work. So that makes him a nice boy!”

Outside, the young man dissapears into the cemetary.

“Or does it,” states, not asks Mitchum under his breath.