I returned to his familiar place outside the station and finished reading, with my coffee beside the black coffee I had bought out of habit for him. Larry admitted that he had been afraid to ask directly for companionship. He worried that loneliness would not seem like a sufficient reason for me to marry him, so he had presented a practical problem instead. Understanding his fear did not remove my discomfort about the deception, but it helped explain the request. “You were not my failed rescue,” he wrote. “You were my wife for three weeks. I liked it.” I thought about the time we had shared and how often I had arrived with supplies while leaving little room simply to sit and talk.
When a man named Jeremy approached and asked whether the seat beside me was free, I moved my bag. Usually, I would have started looking for something useful to offer. This time, I introduced myself and let the conversation develop without deciding what he needed. Larry’s letter had left me with grief, affection, and questions I could no longer ask him. It also reminded me that listening was part of caring for someone, alongside practical help. Before leaving, I carried the extra coffee back to the kiosk and asked for cream. Then I continued toward the station, allowing myself to remember Larry as the complicated person I had known—and the husband I was still learning to understand.