The Man Who Was Always Almost There
There was a man who was always almost there.
This was not a rumour, nor a manner of speech, but a well-established fact, agreed upon by the town, the postman, and the chairs that were kept ready for him. He was, at all times, five minutes away.
“Five minutes?” people would ask.
“Always five,” replied everyone else, with the weary confidence of those who have checked.
If he was said to be crossing the bridge, he was five minutes from the bridge. If he was climbing the hill, he was five minutes from the top. If he was known to be standing just outside the door, hand raised to knock, then surely — unmistakably — he was five minutes from doing so.
No one had ever seen him arrive.
This did not stop them knowing him well.
They spoke of him often and with fondness. He preferred his tea strong but forgot to drink it. He laughed quietly, as though worried it might disturb something. He had a habit of saying “ah” before responding, which suggested thoughtfulness even when none followed. Children were warned not to take his seat, which remained empty at the end of the long table, with a cup that grew steadily colder by the hour.
“He’ll be here in a moment,” someone would say.
And it was true.
Just not yet.
The letters arrived before he did.
They came addressed in a careful hand, always with the correct name, always with no return address. Some were invitations. Some were apologies. One was a birthday card that arrived exactly on time and sang loudly when opened.
The town clerk attempted to file them, but could not decide where.
“He hasn’t come yet,” she said, holding a small stack of envelopes.
“No,” said the baker, “but they’re definitely his.”
And so they were placed neatly on the hall table, where they waited patiently, much like their owner.
Only one person found this unsettling.
Her name was Ada, and she had recently arrived, which made her suspicious of things that had been accepted for too long. Ada noticed the chair first. Then the tea. Then the way conversations bent slightly around a person who was not there.
“When will he arrive?” she asked.
“In five minutes,” said the room.
“But when did you first say that?”
There was a pause.
“Well,” said someone carefully, “quite some time ago.”
Ada decided to meet him.
Not properly, of course — that seemed unlikely — but she resolved to walk out and find where he was stuck being almost. She followed the road everyone said he was on, past the hedges that leaned in to listen, past the gate that never quite closed.
After some time, she saw him.
Or nearly did.
There was a figure in the distance, exactly the right shape, exactly the right amount of familiar. He was close enough to recognise, but far enough to remain uncertain, as though the world itself had misjudged the focus.
She waved.
The figure raised a hand.
She stepped forward.
He stepped forward too.
The distance remained.
It was then that Ada did something unusual.
She stopped walking forward.
Instead, she took a careful step backward.
The world hesitated.
The air felt as though it had mislaid a rule. Birds paused mid-thought. The hedges rustled, offended. The distance between them wavered, thinned, and for the first time appeared unsure of itself.
She took another step back.
The man was suddenly closer.
Not by much — but enough.
She smiled.
“So that’s it,” she said. “You’re not late. You’re being approached incorrectly.”
The man laughed, quietly, exactly as described.
They did not walk together.
That would have spoiled things.
Instead, Ada continued stepping backward, slowly, respectfully, while he moved forward, relieved but cautious, as though arrival were a delicate business that must not be rushed.
When they reached the edge of town, the chair was still empty.
The tea was still cold.
But the five minutes were gone.
No one noticed at first.
Later, someone would remark that the waiting felt different — lighter, somehow — as though something expected had finally been allowed to happen.
As for the man, he did eventually arrive.
Not loudly.
Not all at once.
Just enough to sit down, take a sip of tea, and say “ah,” as if he had been there all along.
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 