One Last Cigarette

"Think Johnny might be on break soon? Might be good to walk, stretch a bit," Rusty suggested, nudging a bottle cap into a crack with his toe. "Gotta keep track of things."

Bruce checked his watch, a gleam of amusement in his eye. "Naturally. A businessman's gotta stay sharp." He stretched elaborately. "Too much time poring over figures, the body rebels."

They began their circuit, weaving through the usual crowd. Bruce nodded to a woman pushing a stroller. "Wonderful things, children," he remarked airily. "Keep the world turning, new opportunities every day..."

"Ever think about... you know, expansion?" Rusty asked. "There's only so much potential here."

Bruce chuckled. "Ambition! I like it. But perhaps after this afternoon's acquisition is secure."

"Acquisition?" Rusty grinned. "You make it sound official."

They rounded the corner. Bruce's eyes scanned the usual office building. "Johnny's a punctual man," he mused. "Clients won't wait, the market never sleeps. A shame some don't appreciate that."

"You ever catch that news story?" Rusty asked, "About that guy who won the lottery and lost it all a month later? Makes you wonder, doesn't it?"

Bruce chuckled, a touch of cynicism in his voice. "Fools and their money...always parted."

They continued, the scent of roasting peanuts from a street vendor's cart filling the air. A burst of discordant saxophone drifted down from an open window. Rusty grimaced. "Bet that guy's got a story worth tellin'..."

The corner ahead came into view. Bruce paused. "Remember that old fellow who used to sit here? With the dog, always reading those thick history books?"

"Yeah...wonder what happened to him," Rusty said, toeing a crumpled soda can.

Bruce pursed his lips. "The world keeps turning, even with us just walking in circles."

They ambled past the usual buildings – glass and chrome reflecting the fading afternoon light. Bruce tugged at his collar. "Funny how some folks rush, like the world hangs on their next meeting..." He trailed off, spotting a familiar bench ahead.

They drifted towards the bench. Rusty kicked aside a crumpled flyer for a pizza place. "Dominos again tonight?" he asked with a wry grin.

"Don't tempt me," Bruce chuckled. "Pepperoni for a king..." A glint of sunlight caught his eye, drawing his gaze down. "Hold on...was that a flicker of gold?"

Rusty leaned over, squinting. "Nah, just a bit of foil. Probably from someone's fancy lunch."

They settled onto the bench, a comfortable silence falling between them. Bruce tapped a rhythmic beat on the peeling paint. A flock of pigeons scattered as a bus rumbled past.

"You ever wonder if they got it figured out?" Rusty mused, watching the pigeons resettle. "Purpose, I mean. Do they wake up knowing exactly what's next?"

Bruce hummed. "Purpose, ha! That's a rich man's word. We got survival figured out, and that's achievement enough."

"Survival ain't much of a dream though, is it?" Rusty countered.

Bruce paused, then a small smile curved his lips. "Remember Sarah's cafe? Best pancakes in the city, and that mural with the goofy-looking clouds..."

Rusty's laugh burst out. "And you with that ketchup mustache, demanding extra plates!"

"For my masterpiece!" Bruce proclaimed, then paused, his voice softer. "Funny how just a taste, a smell...whole other world comes rushing back."

Rusty glanced at him, then out at the busy street. "Yeah..."

They sat for a while, the hum of traffic a comforting backdrop to their silence. A little girl skipped by, clutching a bright blue balloon.

"Now there's someone livin' the dream," Rusty chuckled. "Bet she ain't got a care in the world."

Bruce laughed. "Till that balloon gets too high and pops," he countered. "Then it's all tears and heartbreak."

"The way of the world," Rusty said nodding.

A saxophone's mournful wail drifted from somewhere down the street. Bruce grimaced. "Bet he ain't getting paid enough to carry that tune around all day."

"Nah," Rusty agreed, "But bet you, some days a bad gig still beats..." he trailed off, eyes fixed on a newspaper swirling by their feet.

"Beats what?" Bruce prompted.

Rusty shrugged, a curious tightness around his mouth. "Nothin'. Just thinking, it's a big ol' world, y'know? Lot of different paths." He paused, the breeze ruffling his hair.

The saxophone's wail faded, replaced by the rumble of a delivery truck. Bruce winced slightly, then cleared his throat. "Funny how some sounds just stick with you, isn't it..."

Rusty nodded, a faraway look in his eyes. "Garbage trucks on Thursday mornings...meant it was almost the weekend." A smile ghosted across his face. "Remember how we'd try and guess what that old lady on the corner was baking? Bet it was always apple pie."

"Nah, only on Sundays." Bruce chuckled. "Wednesday was that weird casserole smell, remember?"

"Ugh," Rusty grimaced, then his eyes softened. "Funny, the things your brain holds onto..."

The noise of the city seemed to fade slightly, replaced by the echoes of those shared memories. Bruce reached over, patting Rusty's shoulder.

"Don't matter if it's pie or casseroles," he said, his voice gruff. "We walked the same streets, breathed the same air, didn't we?"

Rusty met his gaze, and for a moment, the unspoken weight of their lives hung heavy between them. Then, he gave a slight nod. "Yeah," he said, "Yeah, we did."

A sudden gust of wind swirled around them, carrying the faint scent of fallen leaves. Bruce shivered and tugged his worn jacket tighter.

"Remember the park in fall?" Rusty asked softly. "The whole place a carpet of red and gold. Bet the squirrels are having a feast out there now..."

Bruce nodded, his eyes distant. "And that big oak tree, right by the pond. Used to bet on which leaf would hit the water first."

Rusty laughed. "You had your tricks...said you could feel the wind change direction."

"Talent," Bruce corrected, a familiar twinkle back in his eye. He leaned back, the bench creaking slightly under his weight.

"Wind's picking up," Rusty said.

"Yeah. It's coming." Bruce murmured.

Rusty let out a long sigh. "Well," he announced, "Guess that pizza ain't happening either." His stomach rumbled.

"Maybe next year."

The afternoon wore on, and the once-bustling streets started to thin out. A streetlamp flickered to life, the light sharp and unforgiving. The first snowflake drifted down, followed by another, then more, swirling in an icy wind.

"Well, I'm guessing Johnny boy didn't close the big deal today." Rusty kicked a rock, his voice less playful. "No sign of the usual..."

Bruce scanned the ground, his expression unreadable. "Used to keep his keys on a fancy chain..." he murmured.

Bruce cleared his throat. "Patience," he said, his tone strained, "Takes time to find a good one..."

With a suddenness that startled a nearby pigeon, Rusty crouched, then sprang up triumphantly. "Got one! It's long, too. Must be one of Johnny's. He only smokes half the cigarette. What a weird guy." Bruce laughed. "How do you know Johnny anyway?"

"Oh, I don't know this guy. His name isn't even Johnny. That just sounded like the name of a person I'd want to get a cigarette from. Good ole Johnny."

The snow fell heavier now. Bruce glanced around. "Wind's turning nasty," he paused, "...it's about that time."

Rusty clutched their treasure, his earlier triumph fading. "Yeah," he murmured, "...maybe first we can find a second butt for you."

They walked in silence for a few steps, the crunch of their shoes on the snow the only sound. Suddenly, the tinny jingle of a Christmas carol drifted through the air. Bruce looked up, his gaze following the sound to a nearby electronics shop.

Inside, a row of televisions flickered. A newscaster, bright and cheerful under the studio lights, spoke urgently. "...blizzard warning now in effect for the entire region. Expect heavy snowfall, high winds, and record-low temperatures. Those without shelter are advised..."

"One last cigarette, old chap."

"Yeah. One last cigarette."