Last para, Not-So-Great Australian Novel, version I

Stopping in front of the restaurant door, the old man slowly, painfully bends down to the worn, wooden crate of herbs that sits there, fresh and dewy. After a cursory look, he prises out a few sprigs of coriander, then some chives, and carefully puts them into his coat pocket. He shuffles on, polished shoes scraping softly against the bitumen sidewalk.

Denny looks out from the restaurant. He considers the old man. Considers why he has let him take the odd sprig of coriander, the odd handful of chives for all these years. But he knows why. It’s a ritual. And sometimes, ritual is all you have.

The end.