He has sat long here, for his friend, waiting on the dock's farthest seaward edge. On the south border of this port town, hung legs into the tide's break, he watches the queue of ships stretch in hundred meter intervals out there on the world's crust, waiting to come to port. They all experience the evening together, the act of a monarch sun relinquishing its seat till day and night are equal, and we all are shepherded into the jurisdiction of that cold stone's glow.
His sandals lie just inside the door to his home. Ragged, they are painted the trace of his foot by four years of oil and wear. He steps them on each day as evening comes into view and turns toward the water.
He does not count months or tally seasons on his wall. This is not the sort of thing on which a person should hang burden like expectation or schedule. The clock in his chest does not tick in elucidated terms but keeps its watch, nonetheless. At its urging, whether a month or a year in time, he'll return to the water and wait for the sea to return his friend. Then, he'll take him in, help him back into legs for the land, and they'll start an unpacking of their own, not unfamiliar to a port like this one.