PART 2: THE SECOND CHAIR
“Mr. Bennett.”
Walter stopped closing the door.
Ethan wasn’t sure what he intended to say.
He wasn’t good at these moments.
So he went with the first thing that came to mind.
“You’re terrible at addresses.”
Walter stared at him.
Then laughed.
A real laugh.
Small, but real.
“Apparently.”
Ethan pointed toward the pizza.
“Also, that’s a large.”
“Yes.”
“You eating all of it?”
“I’ve made worse decisions.”
Ethan looked at the second chair.
Walter followed his eyes.
Neither man said anything.
Then Ethan made another questionable decision.
“Want some help?”
“With the pizza?”
“Yes.”
Walter raised an eyebrow.
“Don’t you have somewhere to be?”
“I was going to watch television.”
“Sounds important.”
“Extremely.”
Walter stepped aside.
“Fine.”
Ethan entered.
He told himself he would stay twenty minutes.
He stayed nearly two hours.
Walter had lived in the apartment for six years.
He and Margaret had been married forty-three.
Every Friday they ordered pizza.
Half pepperoni for Walter.
Half mushroom for Margaret.
After she died, Walter kept ordering.
Same restaurant.
Same size.
No mushrooms anymore.
Ethan noticed the photograph beside the second chair.
“Do you always put that there?”
Walter nodded.
“At first.”
“What do you mean?”
“At first I set two plates too.”
Ethan didn’t respond.
Walter shrugged.
“Grief makes you do strange things.”
Ethan took another slice.
“I’ve seen stranger.”
“Like what?”
“I once watched a grown man spend twenty minutes looking for sunglasses that were on his head.”
Walter nodded.
“That was you.”
Ethan looked at him.
“How did you know?”
“You have the energy.”
Ethan laughed.
That was the beginning.
The following Friday, Ethan heard the doorbell.
Pizza.
He stared at the box.
Then checked the receipt.
4B.
Ethan marched to Walter’s apartment.
Walter opened the door.
Ethan held up the receipt.
“You did this deliberately.”
Walter looked innocent.
“I have trouble with technology.”
“You changed the address last week.”
“Did I?”
“You absolutely did.”
Walter took the pizza.
Then looked down the hallway.
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“You coming in?”
Ethan shook his head.
“You could’ve just asked.”
Walter smiled.
“Apparently you’re terrible at leaving.”
Ethan went inside.
Friday became pizza night.
Sometimes Ethan brought soda.
Walter supplied pizza.
Eventually Ethan convinced him to try something other than pepperoni.
That experiment lasted one week.
“Never again,” Walter declared.
“You ate four slices.”
“Under protest.”
They watched baseball.
Old movies.
Terrible game shows.
Walter complained about Ethan’s generation.
Ethan complained about Walter’s thermostat.
“You keep this place at seventy-eight?”
“My house.”
“It’s a greenhouse.”
“You’re free to return to 4B.”
Ethan never did.
Not on Fridays.
Months passed.
Ethan learned Walter’s children lived in other states.
They called.
Visited when they could.
Walter wasn’t abandoned.
He was simply alone more often than he’d ever expected to be.
Walter learned Ethan wasn’t as socially successful as he appeared either.
He had friends.
Coworkers.
People around him constantly.
But after work, Ethan often returned to a silent apartment.
“You’re lonely too,” Walter said one Friday.
Ethan nearly dropped his pizza.
“No, I’m not.”
“You eat dinner with an eighty-year-old man every Friday.”
“You order good pizza.”
“Deflection.”
“Pepperoni.”
Walter laughed.
The friendship slowly escaped Friday nights.
Walter needed help moving a bookshelf.
Ethan helped.
Ethan’s truck battery died.
Walter appeared holding jumper cables older than Ethan.
“Those belong in a museum.”
“They still work.”
They did.
One Saturday Walter taught Ethan how to make Margaret’s chili.
Ethan ruined it.
“You put in how much salt?”
“The recipe said tablespoon.”
“Teaspoon.”
Ethan stared at the paper.
Walter tasted it again.
“We could use this to preserve meat.”
They ordered pizza.
A year after their first dinner, Friday arrived.
Ethan knocked on 4D.
No answer.
He knocked again.
Nothing.
His stomach tightened.
He called Walter.
No response.
Then the elevator opened.
Walter stepped out carrying a grocery bag.
Ethan exhaled.
“Where were you?”
Walter stopped.
“The store?”
“You didn’t answer your phone.”
“My battery died.”
“You could’ve told me.”
Walter stared at him.
“How exactly would I tell you my phone was dead?”
Ethan opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Walter smiled.
“You worried about me?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
Ethan grabbed the grocery bag.
“Where’s the pizza?”
“Didn’t order one.”
Ethan stopped.
“What?”
Walter unlocked his door.
“Thought we’d go out.”
“On Friday?”
“Yes.”
“You’re changing the system.”
Walter looked at him.
“Margaret would’ve told me it was time.”
That evening they went to an actual restaurant.
Walter didn’t bring Margaret’s photograph.
It was the first Friday in more than a year he’d left it at home.
He still talked about her.
He always would.
But something had changed.
Missing Margaret no longer required Walter to recreate every Friday exactly as it had been.
There could be new Fridays too.
Months later, Walter’s daughter visited.
She met Ethan in the hallway.
“You’re the pizza Sergeant.”
Ethan frowned.
“That’s what he calls me?”
“Among other things.”
She smiled.
Then became serious.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For Fridays.”
Ethan shook his head.
“He feeds me too.”
“You know what I mean.”
He did.
But he didn’t want credit for it.
Because somewhere along the way, Ethan realized the arrangement had never been one-sided.
Walter had needed somebody at the second chair.
But Ethan had needed somewhere to go too.
Two years after the first misplaced pizza, Ethan moved to another building.
On moving day, Walter stood beside the truck.
“Friday?”
Ethan nodded.
“Obviously.”
“Your place or mine?”
“Mine.”
Walter looked suspicious.
“You’re ordering?”
“Yes.”
“Make sure you put the correct apartment number.”
Ethan smiled.
“No promises.”
That Friday, the doorbell rang at Walter’s apartment.
The delivery driver handed him a large pepperoni pizza.
Walter checked the receipt.
Wrong apartment number.
He started laughing.
Then somebody knocked.
Walter opened the door.
Ethan stood there holding two sodas.
Walter lifted the receipt.
“You did this.”
Ethan shrugged.
“Technology is difficult.”
Walter stepped aside.
Years later, neither man could remember exactly when an annoying delivery mistake became friendship.
There had been no dramatic decision.
No promise.
No moment when Ethan announced he was going to help a lonely widower.
A pizza simply arrived at the wrong door.
Then it happened again.
And again.
Eventually Ethan walked it down the hallway—
and stayed.
Sometimes the difference between being alone and having someone in your life isn’t a grand gesture.
Sometimes it’s one empty chair.
Two slices of pepperoni.
And somebody who turns out to be—
terrible at leaving.