He sat down.
My first impulse was to ask whether he wanted coffee.
Then I remembered one of Larry’s final instructions.
“Next time you start trying to fix somebody’s life, ask what they actually want first.”
So I said nothing.
For a while, the two of us simply watched commuters hurry toward the station.
Then I extended my hand.
“I’m Sarah.”
The man looked surprised before shaking it.
“Jeremy.”
“Nice to meet you.”
I picked up the second cup and took a sip.
Black.
I immediately made a face.
Jeremy glanced over.
“Bad?”
“No.”
I looked toward the empty space where Larry used to sit.
“Just not mine.”
I stood and walked back toward the kiosk.
The woman behind the counter saw me approaching.
“Another black?”
I shook my head.
“Actually, could you put some cream in this one?”
When I returned to the bench, Larry’s letter and our marriage certificate rested beside me.
For once, I wasn’t rushing to work.
I wasn’t making phone calls.
I wasn’t filling out forms.
I wasn’t trying to rescue anyone.
I simply sat there.
And for the first time, the coffee in my hands tasted like it belonged to me.
