When I first pulled it from the mailbox, I smiled.
That was Larry.
The man couldn’t accept a cup of coffee without thanking me three times.
I assumed he’d written some final goodbye because he knew I’d spend the next several months wondering whether I’d done enough for him.
Then I read the second sentence.
“Nobody was going to bury me as a John Doe.”
I stopped.
The kitchen suddenly felt too quiet.
“No.”
I sat down.
For several seconds, I stared at those words.
Because that was the reason I’d married him.
Or at least, that was the reason he’d given me.
Less than a month earlier, Larry had been sitting outside my subway station holding a piece of cardboard across his knees.
MARRY ME. I HAVE ONE MONTH LEFT TO LIVE.
I’d known Larry for almost two years by then.
Every weekday morning, I bought two coffees from the kiosk beside the station.
Mine with cream.
His black.
I don’t remember exactly when it became our routine.
At first, I’d simply noticed him sitting near the entrance.
One freezing morning, I bought him coffee.
The next morning, he was there again.
Eventually, two coffees became automatic.
Larry never begged me for money.
Sometimes we’d talk about the weather.
Sometimes politics.
Sometimes pigeons.
Once, he stared at my shoes for several seconds and said:
“Those were clearly designed by somebody who hates feet.”
I laughed all the way to work.
Most mornings, I stayed five minutes.
Then I disappeared into the subway while Larry remained behind.
That Tuesday was different.
He looked terrible.
His skin had a yellowish color.
His hands shook as he took the coffee.
Then I noticed the sign.
MARRY ME. I HAVE ONE MONTH LEFT TO LIVE.
“What is this?”
Larr