old movies and gardening.
“They’re needy.”
Arthur also read detective novels, grew tomatoes badly, and had been married to his wife, Anne, for 38 years before she died.
We didn’t pretend we were young and didn’t play ridiculous games.
We talked about spouses we’d lost.
Children.
Regrets.
Loneliness.
We talked about spouses we’d lost.
***
Once, over a late lunch, Arthur said, “Nobody warns you that grief gets quieter, but it doesn’t entirely leave.”
I knew exactly what he meant.
***
After several afternoons together, he invited me to his home.
“I’ve got a whole shelf of old records you’d love,” he said. “Come for coffee, and I’ll show you.”
I trusted him.
I knew exactly what he meant.
***
Arthur’s house was warm and ordinary, filled with books, mismatched furniture, and family photos along the hallway.
“I’ll put the kettle on,” he said. “Make yourself at home.”
I stepped into the living
