Thyme: A Diptych
by Curtis Coloma
Thyme
Didn’t Wait
The man was dying.
No one sat with him. A nurse had come in earlier. Adjusted the blanket. Checked his chart. Now it was quiet.
There was a plant in the window. It leaned toward the light. The TV was on mute. Some talk show. He didn’t watch.
He was thinking about a place. Somewhere green. Somewhere open. A field, maybe. A field growing thyme. Or what he thought was thyme.
He thought about him kneeling in it, picking wild thyme.
—
They’d seen each other once, years after.
A bar tucked in a corner of Golden Gai. The Young Man arrived early, waited outside. They entered together and the Dying Man bought a round of plum wine.
“You still hate country music?” the Dying Man asked.
“I still don’t like you much,” the Young Man said, then smiled. It wasn’t mean.
They talked a while. Dogs. Work. Something about a friend who’d moved north. The baseball game whirred behind them on the TV.
The Dying Man kept thinking maybe this was it. Maybe they’d get it right this time. Somewhere across the world.
The Young Man set his glass down.
“You came here hoping we could try again.”
It wasn’t a question, so the Dying Man didn’t answer.
The Young Man looked at him. Not angry. Not soft either.
“People like me,” he said, “we don’t wait.”
They walked out together. Went different ways.
That was the last time.
—
The man in the bed exhaled.
—
He was standing. Grass under his feet. Pale light overhead. A breeze. Far off, a sound like birds.
The Young Man knelt in the field. Picking something.
He looked up. “You made it.”
The Dying Man walked closer. The grass gave a little. His shoulders didn’t hurt much now.
The Young Man picked a flower. Rolled it in his fingers.
“You never found another?”
“No.”
The Young Man nodded. “Come on, then.”
They walked together.
—
In the room, the ECG beeped once. A line stretched across the screen. No one came in.
—
Miles away, the Young Man, now much older walked a coastal path. He reached into his coat and pulled out a sprig of thyme.
He didn’t remember picking it.
He looked at it for a moment.
Then let it go.
Let It Go
The last time he saw him was Tokyo.
Golden Gai.
Tiny bar. Seats for six. Plum wine sweating in the glass.
He arrived early, on purpose. Wore a jacket he knew looked good on him.
He didn’t come to rekindle anything.
He came to see if anything was still there.
There wasn’t.
Not really.
⸻
“You still hate country music?” the man asked.
“I still don’t like you much,” he said. Smiled. Not unkind.
They talked.
Work. Dogs.
Someone who’d moved north.
The TV murmured in the background, baseball, maybe. He didn’t look.
He knew what was coming.
He could feel it under the table. In the man’s posture. In the way he sipped too slow, like he wanted to stay forever.
So he set his glass down.
“You came here hoping we could try again,” he said.
The man didn’t answer.
That was answer enough.
He didn’t owe him the truth. He didn’t owe him softness either.
He just said:
“People like me, we don’t wait.” He’d imagined this exchange for years. He wanted to say more. He couldn’t.
Then he stood up. Walked out.
Didn’t look back.
⸻
He didn’t think about it much after that.
Or he did, but only when he was tired. When the tea steeped too long and the wind came through the balcony wrong.
He didn’t miss the man.
Not exactly.
He missed what could’ve been, if someone had stayed. If someone had chosen him when it counted.
But he’d made peace with it.
He built a life.
Not a loud one.
Not an extraordinary one.
Not the one he’d imagined.
But his.
⸻
One morning, years later, he was walking a coastal trail. A place he liked for its quiet. Sea on one side, scrubby cliffs on the other.
He reached into his coat pocket.
Found a sprig of thyme.
He didn’t remember picking it.
He looked at it for a time.
Just still.
Then he opened his hand and let it go.
Watched the wind take it.
Kept walking.
BIO: Curtis Coloma is based in Long Beach, California. This would be his first publication. Curtis interested in the emotional weight of what’s left unsaid and how that can shape a life just as much as anything spoken aloud.