His name was Henry. He was seventy-three, widowed, and staying two buildings away from my little rental near the beach.
Morning coffee became walks, and walks became dinners on the pier. Henry believed sunsets required decent food afterward.
He always ordered key lime pie and said, “We’re too old to lie about wanting dessert just to seem sensible.”
“I still sleep on one side.”
I told him about my children, grandchildren, my late husband, and forty-six years of building routines around people I loved deeply.
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