The Good Old Days

Frank was sitting on a bench, the newspaper spread out across his lap. Warren walked over and asked, "Hey, did you miss your train?"

Frank lifted his eyes momentarily from the paper. "No." "Oh," said Warren, "so you weren't trying to make the 10:57?" Frank adjusted his glasses, pushing them up with his index finger. "No," he said. "Are you sure?" Warren asked, "I could swear you always take the 10:57."

Frank folded the paper neatly beside him. "No," he said again, "I didn't miss my train." He brushed his hand over the lapel of his dark tweed coat. "I live here and have always lived here. Did you know this land was once teeming with creatures so monstrous when they walked it felt as if the world were collapsing on itself?"

"You don't say," said Warren. "There were no birds," Frank continued, "only leathery beasts the size of airplanes that could swoop down and snatch you up with their claws if you weren't paying attention. It was a frightening place to be alive."

The two men sat in silence for what seemed like ages. Finally, Warren spoke. "Well, thank goodness it's all evolved since then." He patted Frank on the back and stood up. "Take it easy, buddy. I hope you make your train."

Warren walked away but Frank barely noticed. "Those were the days," he said, shaking his head. "Now they're gone forever."