Her smile is spectacular. You don't care what I wore. The driver who picked us up was probably in his late thirties, which made him just a little older than us. He was a little taller than Cindy, with an olive complexion and a ready smile. He made little effort to hide his approval of my wife's looks, but cheerfully held the door for both of us as we entered the new Audi and then drove us to dinner. Our driver was so engaging and flirtatious with my wife that I began to feel a little pertrubed. My wife noticed, however, and squeezed my hand in the backseat in such a way that it communicated: relax, dear, we're just having fun. Our newfound friend pulled to the curb in front of the restaurant, then hopped out to open the door for us. I got out first and turned away ostensibly to check out the restaurant, but instead focused my eyes on the reflection in the glass to see how the driver interracted with Cindy. While holding the door and otherwise helping her out, he positioned himself in. I can’t ever remind you how beautiful you are, even when you’re bald and too thin. I promised I’d remember you like to be kissed gently, with a nibble at the end. Tears burn my eyes as I grieve for the lost chance to wake up next to you. I still want to hold your hand everywhere, at home, in public, during sex and while we sleep. I have so many questions that will have to remain unanswered. This loss, the slow grind of acceptance, is terrible. You fill my thoughts and my heart hurts. I wish for a different outcome. Crazy thoughts shoot through my head, bouncing off memories of you. What if I’d called sooner? I should have sent more little positive messages. I should have just asked permission to visit. If I had, you’d still be here, fighting. Then I wouldn’t have this huge ache inside. I recognize these thoughts as foolish, and I brush them aside. I focus on better, positive thoughts. On healthier imaginings. The other part of me is happy you no longer suffer. I couldn’t stand.
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