“She was,” I said, though I wondered how he could speak of her with such certainty when we had only just met.
We sat in silence while he ate, the only sound being the distant hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. He did not ask me about my job, and he did not volunteer any details about his illness.
When he finished, he set the bowl on the small table beside his chair. His hand lingered on the wood, flat and still.
“Will you return on Thursday?” he asked.
“I will,” I said, rising to gather the empty bowl. “I promised three days a week.”
“I am grateful,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “More than you know.”
I washed the bowl in the quiet kitchen, dried it with a clean towel, and placed it back in the cupboard. The small green tea cup remained by the sink, untouched.
I walked back to the living room to say goodbye, but Carl had already closed his eyes, his breathing slow and shallow. I stepped quietly down the hallway and let myself out into the evening.
