The Empty Chair

Journal

Every Saturday, the barber kept one chair empty. Nobody knew why.

Sal had cut hair on this corner for forty years. Every Saturday at ten, he'd stop, look at the empty chair, and pour two coffees.

The chair was Frank's. Fifty years of Saturdays, same chair, same stories. Frank passed two winters ago.

Then one Saturday, a new man moved in next door. He didn't know the rules. He sat in Frank's chair.

Sal froze. Then he smiled, shook out the cape, and said, 'First one's on the house, friend.'

They talked for an hour. The new man — Walter — hadn't talked to anyone in weeks. Neither had Sal, really.

Now Saturdays have two coffees and two chairs full. Sal says Frank would've liked Walter. I think Frank sent him.

Some chairs aren't empty. They're just waiting for the next person.