The Regulars

It was drizzling, a soft gray afternoon, when Arthur pushed open the door of The Grind. The bell jingled above him. He’d been back in town for a week, and this was his third visit. The coffee was decent, but it was the corner table that called to him – the same one he’d claimed nearly fifty years ago as a young professor grading papers. It felt like coming home, even if the rest of the world had tilted on its axis.

He settled into the worn leather armchair, sighing as he set down his satchel. It was 2:47 PM. He remembered when this place was called The Student Prince and served terrible coffee in chipped mugs. Now it was all sleek machines and organic blends, but the bones of the building remained. He opened his book – Proust, always a comfort – and tried to ignore the ache in his knuckles.

The doorbell jingled again ten minutes later. Arthur didn’t look up immediately, absorbed in a particularly convoluted sentence about madeleines. When he did, his breath hitched.

The man was older, of course. His dark hair was silver now, pulled back in a short ponytail, and lines fanned from his eyes. But the way he moved – that loose-limbed confidence, the slight swagger – was unmistakable. Leo. Leo, who’d been the resident mechanic at the campus garage, who’d fixed Arthur’s sputtering VW Bug countless times, who’d kissed him behind the shop one humid August night and then vanished.

Leo was scanning the room, his gaze passing over Arthur before snapping back. His eyes widened. “Art?” he said, his voice deeper but still familiar. “Arthur Bellweather?”

Arthur’s heart hammered against his ribs. *He remembers your name. After all this time.* He set his book down carefully. “Leo,” he managed. “Leo Vance.”

A slow grin spread across Leo’s face. He gestured to the empty chair opposite Arthur. “Mind if I join you?” He didn’t wait for an answer, sliding into the seat. He shrugged off his leather jacket, revealing a faded Led Zeppelin t-shirt stretched across his broad shoulders. His forearms were still corded with muscle, dusted with silver hair.

“You’re looking well,” Arthur said, then winced inwardly. *Could you be more banal?* “I mean...it’s good to see you.”

“You too, Art.” Leo’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Really good.” He signaled the barista. “Still take your coffee black? Two sugars?”

Arthur blinked. “You remember.”

“Some things stick,” Leo said easily. He ordered two coffees before turning back to Arthur. “So. What brings you back to the old stomping grounds?”

Arthur fiddled with the edge of his book. “I retired last year. My wife passed a few months ago.” *Too much, too fast.* He cleared his throat. “I thought...I thought coming back might be a comfort.”

Leo’s expression softened. “I’m sorry. About your wife.” He accepted the coffees from the barista and slid one across to Arthur. “I never married. Never really settled down.” *Is that a hint? Don’t be absurd.*

“Still riding?” Arthur asked, gesturing to the Harley-Davidson patch on Leo’s jacket.

“Yep. Got my own shop now, over on Elm Street. Mostly vintage bikes.” Leo took a sip of his coffee, his gaze never leaving Arthur’s face. “You? Still teaching?”

“Not anymore.” Arthur wrapped his hands around the warm mug. “Though I do miss the students sometimes. The energy of it.”

“Mmm.” Leo leaned back in his chair. “Remember when you used to come into the garage? That little Bug of yours was a lemon, Art.”

Arthur chuckled. “It was. But you always managed to coax it back to life.”

Their eyes met, and for a moment, the years fell away. Arthur remembered the smell of oil and gasoline, the way Leo’s hands had moved so surely over the engine. The way those same hands had felt on his skin, rough and warm.

*Don’t,* he told himself fiercely. *That was a lifetime ago.*

Leo’s foot nudged Arthur’s under the table. “You know,” he said casually, “I come here most afternoons. Around this time.”

Arthur’s pulse fluttered. “Is that so?”

“Yep.” Leo smiled, slow and easy. “Always did like this corner table.”

It was drizzling, a soft gray afternoon, when Arthur pushed open the door of The Grind. The bell jingled above him. He’d been back in town for a week, and this was his third visit. The coffee was decent, but it was the corner table that called to him – the same one he’d claimed nearly fifty years ago as a young professor grading papers. It felt like coming home, even if the rest of the world had tilted on its axis.

He settled into the worn leather armchair, sighing as he set down his satchel. It was 2:47 PM. He remembered when this place was called The Student Prince and served terrible coffee in chipped mugs. Now it was all sleek machines and organic blends, but the bones of the building remained. He opened his book – Proust, always a comfort – and tried to ignore the ache in his knuckles.

The doorbell jingled again ten minutes later. Arthur didn’t look up immediately, absorbed in a particularly convoluted sentence about madeleines. When he did, his breath hitched.

The man was older, of course. His dark hair was silver now, pulled back in a short ponytail, and lines fanned from his eyes. But the way he moved – that loose-limbed confidence, the slight swagger – was unmistakable. Leo. Leo, who’d been the resident mechanic at the campus garage, who’d fixed Arthur’s sputtering VW Bug countless times, who’d kissed him behind the shop one humid August night and then vanished.

Leo was scanning the room, his gaze passing over Arthur before snapping back. His eyes widened. “Art?” he said, his voice deeper but still familiar. “Arthur Bellweather?”

Arthur’s heart hammered against his ribs. *He remembers your name. After all this time.* He set his book down carefully. “Leo,” he managed. “Leo Vance.”

A slow grin spread across Leo’s face. He gestured to the empty chair opposite Arthur. “Mind if I join you?” He didn’t wait for an answer, sliding into the seat. He shrugged off his leather jacket, revealing a faded Led Zeppelin t-shirt stretched across his broad shoulders. His forearms were still corded with muscle, dusted with silver hair.

“You’re looking well,” Arthur said, then winced inwardly. *Could you be more banal?* “I mean...it’s good to see you.”

“You too, Art.” Leo’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Really good.” He signaled the barista. “Still take your coffee black? Two sugars?”

Arthur blinked. “You remember.”

“Some things stick,” Leo said easily. He ordered two coffees before turning back to Arthur. “So. What brings you back to the old stomping grounds?”

Arthur fiddled with the edge of his book. “I retired last year. My wife passed a few months ago.” *Too much, too fast.* He cleared his throat. “I thought...I thought coming back might be a comfort.”

Leo’s expression softened. “I’m sorry. About your wife.” He accepted the coffees from the barista and slid one across to Arthur. “I never married. Never really settled down.” *Is that a hint? Don’t be absurd.*

“Still riding?” Arthur asked, gesturing to the Harley-Davidson patch on Leo’s jacket.

“Yep. Got my own shop now, over on Elm Street. Mostly vintage bikes.” Leo took a sip of his coffee, his gaze never leaving Arthur’s face. “You? Still teaching?”

“Not anymore.” Arthur wrapped his hands around the warm mug. “Though I do miss the students sometimes. The energy of it.”

“Mmm.” Leo leaned back in his chair. “Remember when you used to come into the garage? That little Bug of yours was a lemon, Art.”

Arthur chuckled. “It was. But you always managed to coax it back to life.”

Their eyes met, and for a moment, the years fell away. Arthur remembered the smell of oil and gasoline, the way Leo’s hands had moved so surely over the engine. The way those same hands had felt on his skin, rough and warm.

*Don’t,* he told himself fiercely. *That was a lifetime ago.*

Leo’s foot nudged Arthur’s under the table. “You know,” he said casually, “I come here most afternoons. Around this time.”

Arthur’s pulse fluttered. “Is that so?”

“Yep.” Leo smiled, slow and easy. “Always did like this corner table.”