Our friend group has an unwritten rule. If we agree to meet at eight, Marco shows up at nine. Sometimes half past. Once he arrived the next morning.

Okay, that last one's an exaggeration. But it sure felt like it.

The eternal promise

Marco always texts the same thing. On my way! With an exclamation mark. Sometimes with a little running man emoji.

By now we know the truth: on my way means nothing. He's still in the shower. Or he's trying on his fourth outfit of the night.

Or he's lost his keys. Again.

The waiting ritual

We're sitting on the terrace. The spritz is ordered. The spritz is gone. The second spritz is ordered.

Someone asks: "Where's Marco?" Everyone sighs in unison. It sounds like a synchronized swim team.

The waiter knows us by now. He doesn't ask if we're ready to order anymore. He just brings bread. Lots of bread.

Meanwhile, we analyze Marco's life. Would he ever show up on time for his own funeral? We think not. The coffin's ready, the flowers are laid out, and then a text: Almost at the pearly gates!

The grand entrance

He appears at a quarter past nine. Always out of breath. Always with a story.

The metro wasn't running. His neighbor wanted to chat. His dog looked sad.

Last week it was a new one: he accidentally fell asleep on the couch. With his jacket already on. "I was ready to go," he said indignantly.

As if we did something wrong by staying awake.

The kiss, the drama, the drink

He gives everyone three kisses. He plops down. He immediately orders a wine and a water. Because he's so thirsty from all that rushing.

We nod sympathetically. What an ordeal he must have endured. All that running from his couch.

Within five minutes, he's holding court. He tells us about his date yesterday. About his new shoes. About that one coworker who is absolutely a character.

And we listen. Because annoying as it is: without Marco, the evening just isn't complete.

The resignation

I've given up. I tell Marco we're meeting at seven, while I actually show up at the terrace at eight. He arrives around half past nine.

Almost on time, in his mind.

He's proud. He tells everyone: "I'm working on my punctuality." We nod in admiration.

Nobody tells him the truth. Because honestly? A friend group without a reliable latecomer is like Pride without rain. Too perfect. Too predictable.

Someone has to fill that role. And as long as Marco does it, we don't have to.

Cheers, to the second spritz. And the third.