Chance Encounter

Fucking Harold. The high school bully. Haven’t seen him in, shit, 50 years. But there he is in front of me in the self checkout line in Home Depot. He’s barely recognizable-that stupid tattoo on his wrist is the giveaway. It’s clear that time has treated neither of us kindly. I barely recognize him. Pretty sure he won’t remember me. So I ram my cart into his knee.

“Oh! Oh! Sorry!” I exclaim, as he falls to the floor, screaming and grasping his oddly bent knee.

I got memories - you’ll be getting no succor from me, sucker.