John, a few months after he and Ellen had parted ways. "That's strange," John mused,

while searching through the middle drawer of his dresser.  About three hundred dollars - give or take some - was missing.  And yet, he was more upset about the gray sweater missing.  Okay, the thing was about half frayed around both collar and sleeves, but it was warm, and it had been cut using enough real wool to accommodate the inevitable middle-aged thickening around the middle.  He opened the bottom drawer - no surprise, wasn't there either.  He checked his closet, once again, but because he wanted to be somewhere, and Jim's party was already starting to get going, John would miss the torch-off of the bonfire, if he didn't get going.  

He grabbed a vest - made of ... some blend, whatever it was called - which would almost be warm enough.  Dear reader, if you think it was hard for a normal red blooded man to find guy clothing, back in '22...uh, you don't want to have to clothing shop in 30-something.  Because, the everyday stuff was either/or fakey/skimpy/unable to hold after three washings, or it was tooty-fruity.  

On the way out, he grabbed a certain - and his most favored - piece of outing gear.  A wool lined, metal helmet, with viking horns.  Tonight was the imbolic ceremony - February 2nd was still called, groundhog day, by some - but there was no longer much need to go around using code-words...unless your fundie cousin would be visiting mom at the same time.  

He sort of hoped Allison would be there, but whatever.  Even though there wasn't much drama, during or after Ellen packed her stuff and moved on...he couldn't quite put his finger on it, but it was as if, the other shoe was quietly, patiently waiting to drop.

One week later.

"What's up, Jimbo?"  A buddy of his took a stool nearby, while pulling out some bills from his front pocket.

"Guess you didn't hear."  Jim then recalled, his buddy being on a job somewhere in Ohio.  "John died."

"What?" Jim's buddy spit out half his swallow of beer.

"Yeah, his sister found him, think it was last Monday sometime, on his sofa; they think it might have been a heart-attack, but aren't really sure."

"Oh comeon, he was what?  Mid 40s, if that."

"Well, that's what..." a group of motorcycles sped along the road not too far out front.