He said that for six months after she died, the rooms had felt so empty he no longer knew how to live in them.

He had been thinking of ending his life, but my unexpected company interrupted a day he had feared might be his last.

I had to put the paper down.

Our Sunday coffees had not been a heroic act.

Sometimes I had rushed.

Sometimes I had glanced at my watch or complained about grocery prices.

Once, when Maya was sick, I left Arthur’s bags on the counter and promised to come back the next week.

I couldn’t reconcile those imperfect visits with the weight he had put on them.