Within twenty minutes of finishing his anniversary glass, Arthur slumped back and let out a long, heavy yawn.
I watched his chin drop to his collar.
His breathing grew heavy and shallow, his forehead nearly touching the edge of his dessert plate.
I did not wake him.
I quietly carried the silver-rimmed wine glasses to the sink, rinsed them in cold water, and left him sleeping in the dining room chair until midnight.
By nine the next morning, Arthur’s car was gone to the grocery store.
I went upstairs to the master bedroom and opened the deep closet where he kept his sporting gear.
I unzipped the side pocket of his leather golf bag, reaching past three yellow tennis balls and a brass divot tool.
My fingers brushed against a small, stiff plastic cylinder.
I pulled out a brown prescription bottle with a faded white label.
It was prescribed to his cousin, Thomas, who had passed away last November.
The label read Phenobarbital, thirty milligrams, and the price printed near the barcode was thirty-five dollars.
There were only seven pills left out of ninety.
