I told myself that while I could still walk through airports, carry my own suitcase, climb stairs without asking permission from my knees, and explore, I would see everything I could.
I wanted to do that one thing for myself.
Australia was my fourth stop.
And that was where I met Arthur.
Arthur was 71, widowed, gentle, and had the kind of dry humor that sneaked up on you.
We met in Melbourne at a small second-hand bookstore.
I reached for a detective novel at the same moment he did.
He looked at my hand resting over his.
“I suppose at our age, fighting over it would be undignified.”
“At our age?”
He smiled.
“Fair point. You look 35,” he replied.
“Now I know you’re definitely dishonest.”
Arthur laughed.
We had coffee that afternoon, then another two days later.
Then we took an afternoon walk through a garden where he spent 25 minutes arguing that roses were overrated.
“They’re needy,” he said.
“They’re flowers.”
“Exactly. Imagine being that demanding and not even paying rent.”
I laughed more around Arthur than I had in years.
He loved jazz. So did I.
We both also enjoyed old movies and gardening.
Arthur read detective novels, grew tomatoes badly, and had been married to his wife, Anne, for 38 years before she died.
We didn’t pretend we were young and didn’t play ridiculous games.
We talked about spouses we’d lost.
Children.
Regrets.
Loneliness.
Once, over a late lunch, Arthur said, “Nobody warns you that grief gets quieter, but it doesn’t entirely leave.”
I knew exactly what he meant.
After several afternoons together, he invited me to his home.
“I’ve got a whole shelf of old records you’d love,” he said. “Come for coffee, and I’ll show you.”
I trusted him.
Arthur’s house was warm and ordinary, filled with books, mismatched furniture, and family photos lining the hallway. “I’ll put the kettle on,” he said. “Make yourself at home.”
I walked into the living room and froze.
