The Sunday Routine

Every Sunday morning, Arthur placed his faded blue cap on the kitchen table. The cap still bore the faint stain of chlorine from the swimming pool where he and Marvin had taught hundreds of children to swim over three decades. The pool had been their sanctuary, their classroom, their church.

Marvin had been more than a friend—he was the brother Arthur never had. They'd met on a baseball field in 1957, both shy teenagers trying out for the same team. Marvin had offered Arthur his glove when Arthur's split at the seams. That simple gesture built a friendship that survived marriages, children, divorces, and heart attacks.

They'd spent countless evenings playing pool at O'Malley's, sinking balls between stories about their baseball days. Marvin always wore that ridiculous fedora, even at the pool table. "Style never sleeps," he'd say, tipping the brim when pretty women walked by.

The fedora now sat on Arthur's shelf, next to Marvin's favorite ashtray. Five years since Marvin passed, and Arthur still kept their Sunday routine. The vitamin ritual was Marvin's idea—both of them, pushing eighty, needed to keep their strength. "Old age is just a batting average," Marvin had said. "Some days you hit, some days you miss. But you keep stepping up to the plate."

Arthur arranged his vitamins in the same order Marvin had taught him: D for the bones they swore would break, B12 for the energy they pretended still existed, Omega-3 for hearts that kept beating despite everything.

Outside, a baseball game crackled from a neighbor's radio. The sound transported Arthur to 1957, to that dusty field where a boy with an extra glove had changed everything. He swallowed the vitamins with his morning coffee, then carefully placed Marvin's fedora on his own head.

"Style never sleeps, my friend," Arthur whispered to the empty room, and stepped out into the sunlight.