I flew home on the red-eye, still tasting airplane coffee. On my fridge, a jury summons I hadn't opened in two months.
I'm a locksmith. I open doors for strangers all day. Couldn't open the one between me and my twin brother.
Three years of silence over a stupid fight about a car loan. We'd both been too proud to blink first.
He called out of the blue. Said he was in town for one night. Wanted to meet at the old diner.
We sat in our usual booth. He ordered eggs over easy. I ordered coffee. The silence was thick as the gravy.
The waitress brought the toast. Burnt on one side, just like our mom used to make. He picked it up and held it toward me.
"To second chances," he said. That was it. Three years of walls crumbled over a piece of blackened bread.
We ate in silence for a while, but it was a different kind of quiet. The kind that doesn't need filling.