for myself.
***
Arthur was 71, widowed, gentle, and had the kind of dry humor that sneaked up on you.
We met in Melbourne at a small second-hand bookstore.
I reached for a detective novel at the same time he did.
He looked at my hand over his.
“I suppose at our age, fighting over it would be undignified.”
“At our age?”
He smiled.
We met in Melbourne.
“Fair point. You look 35,” he replied.
“Now I know you’re definitely dishonest.”
Arthur laughed.
We had coffee that afternoon, then another two days later.
Then an afternoon walk through a garden where he spent 25 minutes arguing that roses were overrated.
“I know you’re definitely dishonest.”
“They’re needy,” he said.
“They’re flowers.”
“Exactly. Imagine being that demanding and not even paying rent.”
I laughed more around Arthur than I had in years.
He loved jazz. So did I.
We both also liked
