He walked to the chair and sat down, across from the spot where I had waited for him every night.
He looked at the head, at the face that had once smiled at him. She had brought him milk, stayed up waiting for him to come home. Those eyes were closed; he would never see his own reflection in them again.
He reached out and gently placed his hand over the eyelids.
Tears fell onto the back of his hand—one, then another—splashing onto the table, onto his own skin.
He didn't make a sound; the entire dining room was silent.
I stood in the corner, watching him kneel there trembling, watching him vomit, watching him smash the ashtray, watching him finally shed tears for me.
So he could cry.
But what was he crying for?
He had never loved me. He only lost someone who made his coffee every mo
