Arthur looked at the typewriter. He realized that "sometime" wasn't a point on a calendar; it was a ghost that lived in the space between intention and action. It was a comfortable lie that allowed him to feel productive while standing still.
He didn't wait for a grand opening line. He didn't wait for the coffee to cool. He simply began. sometime
They never had. The bridge had remained a skeleton of steel, and the friendship had drifted into a quiet history. Arthur looked at the typewriter