He spoke like a man keeping track.
“Did the cafeteria lady’s grandson pass his driving test?” he asked once.
“I don’t know.”
“He was taking it Tuesday.”
“You remember that?”
Thomas shrugged. “She mentioned it.” “You remember that?”
Another time, a housekeeper came in humming as she replaced the trash bag.
“Morning, Lila,” he said. “That song again?”
She laughed.
“My mama loved it, Tom.”
“I know.”
She stopped. “You remembered?”
He simply smiled.
That was Thomas.
Or at least, that was the Thomas I believed I knew.
A kind dying man.
A lonely one.
One day, he asked me to marry him.
“Marry me, Sarah,” he whispered.
I froze beside his bed, a cup of ice chips in my hand.
“Thomas…”
“I know.”
“You’re very sick.”
“Yes.”
“We barely know each other.”
He studied me for a long moment.
“I know enough.”
“Enough for marriage?”
“Enough to know you’re the kind of person who stays. My last wish is to leave this world as a husband, not as a nameless file.”
