The homeless man I married always drank his coffee black outside my subway station in downtown Minneapolis.<\/p>\n
Six days after his funeral, a letter arrived in his shaky handwriting inside a thick white envelope.<\/p>\n
The postmark was dated one day before he died, and the first sentence was an apology I did not understand at all.<\/p>\n
\u201cHannah, I need to apologize before I thank you,\u201d I read aloud to the empty room, tracing the uneven letters I had watched him write on hospice intake forms.<\/p>\n
When I first held the envelope, I had actually smiled because I assumed he was leaving me a quiet goodbye.<\/p>\n
He was the kind of man who could never accept a paper cup of coffee without thanking me three times.<\/p>\n
Then I reached the second sentence, and my smile instantly disappeared.<\/p>\n
\u201cNobody was going to bury me as a John Doe,\u201d he had written on the lined yellow paper.<\/p>\n
I sat down heavily in my armchair, staring at the page while my breath caught in my throat.<\/p>\n
Less than a month earlier, he had been sitting outside the Hennepin Avenue station with a piece of cardboard across his knees.<\/p>\n
Written across it in large black marker were the words: MARRY ME. I HAVE ONE MONTH LEFT TO LIVE.<\/p>\n
I had known him for nearly two years by then, stopping every weekday morning at the coffee cart beside the entrance.<\/p>\n
My cup always had sweet cream, while his was strictly black without any sugar.<\/p>\n
He never begged me for spare change or food.<\/p>\n
Some mornings we talked about the incoming Midwest blizzards, and other mornings he complained about the city pigeons.<\/p>\n
Once, he looked down at my office pumps and said, \u201cThose look like they were designed by an engineer who genuinely hated human feet.\u201d<\/p>\n
I usually stayed for five minutes before rushing to my job at the accounting firm downtown.<\/p>\n
That specific Tuesday morning was completely different because he looked terribly frail and pale.<\/p>\n
His skin had a sickly yellow tint, and his calloused hands shook violently when I handed him his morning cup.<\/p>\n
I pointed down at his cardboard sign and asked, \u201cWhat is this supposed to mean?\u201d<\/p>\n
He looked down at the rough cardboard and replied softly, \u201cThe free clinic doctors say I probably have about four weeks left.\u201d<\/p>\n
For a moment, the roar of the morning traffic and the rush of commuters completely faded away.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat are you talking about?\u201d I asked, kneeling beside him on the frozen pavement.<\/p>\n
\u201cLiver failure,\u201d he said simply, shifting his weight against the brick wall.<\/p>\n
\u201cI am so sorry,\u201d I whispered, reaching out to touch his shoulder.<\/p>\n
\u201cDo not make that face, Hannah,\u201d he said, forcing a tiny grin.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat face am I making?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe face people make when they are already standing at your graveside,\u201d he said gently.<\/p>\n
Even while facing his own death, he still managed to make me laugh out loud on a cold sidewalk.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy are you asking someone to marry you?\u201d I asked, pointing again at the cardboard sign.<\/p>\n
He looked down into his black coffee and said, \u201cI just do not want to die belonging to nobody.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou do not belong to nobody,\u201d I told him firmly.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat is a very sweet thing to say,\u201d he said, looking out toward the busy street. \u201cBut everything changes when there is legal paperwork involved.\u201d<\/p>\n
He explained that without any surviving legal family, local public health workers would eventually dispose of his remains.<\/p>\n
\u201cI just want one person in this world who can stand up and say, \u2018He is mine, and I will take care of him,’\u201d he whispered.<\/p>\n
I was thirty-two, single, and living alone in a small apartment nearby.<\/p>\n
He was dying on the street, and I had always been someone who preferred fixing problems over walking away.<\/p>\n
Two days later, we walked into the municipal court building in Saint Paul to get our marriage license.<\/p>\n
He wore a clean blue button-down shirt that a volunteer at the shelter had given him that morning.<\/p>\n
I wore my conservative navy work dress, holding a small folder with our identification documents.<\/p>\n
When the magistrate asked if we had brought rings, he dramatic searched his empty coat pockets with a gasp.<\/p>\n
\u201cWell, it looks like I completely forgot the jewelry,\u201d he joked with a quiet chuckle.<\/p>\n
I could not help but smile despite the solemn room.<\/p>\n
Eleven minutes later, after signing three official documents, I officially became his wife.<\/p>\n
Exactly three weeks after that ceremony, I sat beside his bed in a quiet hospice facility in Bloomington.<\/p>\n
I held his calloused hand while his breathing slowed down and eventually stopped forever.<\/p>\n
And now, holding his letter six days later, I was reading that his desperate story had been a complete lie.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe liver failure was real, and the four weeks were real,\u201d the letter continued in his rough handwriting. \u201cWhat I lied about was why I asked you to marry me in the first place.\u201d<\/p>\n
I lowered the yellow paper to my desk, took a deep breath, and immediately picked it up again.<\/p>\n
\u201cMy final arrangements were already completely settled by municipal programs,\u201d he wrote. \u201cThe shelter system and the county social services would have handled every single form. I was never going to disappear without a name.\u201d<\/p>\n
I stood up so fast from my chair that the wooden legs scraped loudly against the floorboards.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat did you actually do?\u201d I yelled at the empty apartment, feeling a surge of sudden anger.<\/p>\n
There was nowhere for my anger to go because he was already dead and buried in the earth.<\/p>\n
I could not call his phone, demand an explanation, or force him to look me in the eye.<\/p>\n
I forced myself to read the next paragraph on the page.<\/p>\n
\u201cIf I gave you a clear problem that you could solve, I knew you would step up and solve it,\u201d he wrote.<\/p>\n
That sentence hurt more than anything else because it exposed my exact nature.<\/p>\n
For two long years, I had constantly offered him things he never directly asked to receive.<\/p>\n
I bought him hot coffee, warm socks, sandwiches, and list after list of shelter phone numbers.<\/p>\n
During a brutal winter cold snap, I spent my entire lunch break calling facilities until I secured him a bed.<\/p>\n
He always thanked me politely, but I never realized he was studying me the entire time.<\/p>\n
He had figured out the exact emotional mechanism required to make me say yes to him.<\/p>\n
Near the bottom of the first page, he had written a very specific set of instructions.<\/p>\n
\u201cBefore you decide what kind of terrible person I was, go back to the courthouse where we got married,\u201d the letter read. \u201cAsk for a woman named Teresa at the records desk, and tell her you are my wife.\u201d<\/p>\n
For several minutes, I considered throwing the entire letter into the kitchen trash can.<\/p>\n
Instead, an hour later, I was standing inside the marble lobby of the Saint Paul courthouse.<\/p>\n
Dozens of nervous couples filled the plastic waiting chairs around the bright central hallway.<\/p>\n
A young woman in a white jumpsuit adjusted her makeup while her fianc\u00e9 nervously held a red bouquet.<\/p>\n
A toddler crawled under the seats while his tired father tried to catch him by his coat.<\/p>\n
Three weeks earlier, he and I had sat in those exact same plastic chairs waiting for our turn.<\/p>\n
I remembered how he had repeatedly rubbed his trembling palms against his denim jeans.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou are shaking really badly,\u201d I had remarked to him back then.<\/p>\n
\u201cI am dying, so I think I am allowed to be a little nervous,\u201d he had answered with a small smile.<\/p>\n
At the time, I accepted his simple explanation without asking any further questions.<\/p>\n
Now I wondered how many things I had believed simply because digging deeper seemed inconvenient.<\/p>\n
I walked up to the heavy wooden counter, where an administrator pointed me toward a desk in the back.<\/p>\n
An older woman wearing distinctive red reading glasses looked up from a stack of legal files.<\/p>\n
\u201cAre you Teresa?\u201d I asked, holding my handbag tightly against my coat.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes, I am,\u201d she answered, pulling off her glasses to look at me.<\/p>\n
\u201cMy name is Hannah,\u201d I said, feeling my voice quiver slightly in the quiet room. \u201cI am his wife.\u201d<\/p>\n
Her hands froze instantly above her computer keyboard as she stared at me.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhose wife?\u201d she asked softly, leaning forward across the desk.<\/p>\n
\u201cHis name was standard on the marriage certificate,\u201d I explained, mentioning his name for the first time that day.<\/p>\n
Her rolling chair moved backward as she stood up quickly from her desk.<\/p>\n
\u201cOh, sweetheart,\u201d she whispered, walking right around the heavy counter to wrap her arms around me.<\/p>\n
I stood stiffly in her warm embrace, completely surprised by her sudden emotional reaction.<\/p>\n
When she stepped back, I noticed that her eyes were filled with real tears.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhen did he pass away?\u201d she asked quietly, wiping her cheek with a tissue.<\/p>\n
\u201cJust about a week ago,\u201d I replied, watching her carefully.<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI knew he was very sick, but I did not realize he was that close to the end,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n
I stared at her in total confusion and asked, \u201cDid you actually know him?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOf course I knew him,\u201d Teresa said, looking around the large historical office space.<\/p>\n
\u201cHow did you know him?\u201d I pressed, trying to connect the pieces in my mind.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe worked right here in this building,\u201d she explained with a gentle expression.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe worked here?\u201d I repeated, my mouth dropping open in total disbelief.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe was an administrator here for twenty-eight years before his retirement,\u201d she revealed.<\/p>\n
I leaned against the wooden counter and asked, \u201cThen how on earth did he end up living on the street?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHis health started failing right after he retired, and medical bills completely drained his life savings,\u201d she explained softly. \u201cThen he lost his apartment, and he was simply too proud to ask any of his old colleagues for financial help.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat specific job did he do here?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe mostly processed marriage licenses and managed the civil ceremony schedules,\u201d she answered.<\/p>\n
She took off her glasses again and asked, \u201cDid he really never tell you any of this?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo, he never mentioned a single word about his past,\u201d I answered truthfully.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat sounds exactly like him,\u201d she said with a faint, fond smile.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat does that mean?\u201d I asked, taking a step closer to her desk.<\/p>\n
She paused for a moment, looked at the quiet hallway, and then gestured for me to follow her.<\/p>\n
\u201cCome with me down the hall,\u201d she said, leading me toward a set of heavy mahogany doors.<\/p>\n
PART 3
\nShe opened the doors into a small, elegant room designed specifically for civil wedding ceremonies.<\/p>\n
Against the far wall stood a polished wooden wedding arch decorated with simple silk flowers.<\/p>\n
I recognized the room instantly from our brief eleven-minute ceremony three weeks prior.<\/p>\n
\u201cThis is the exact room where we were married,\u201d I said softly, looking at the carpet.<\/p>\n
\u201cI know it is,\u201d Teresa replied, stepping toward a large wooden storage cabinet in the corner.<\/p>\n
\u201cWere you here that afternoon?\u201d I asked, turning around to face her.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo, I was not here for the ceremony,\u201d she said, unlocking the heavy cabinet drawer. \u201cBut he came in to see me the afternoon before you two got married.\u201d<\/p>\n
I stared at her in surprise and asked, \u201cWhy did he come to see you?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI asked him that exact same question,\u201d Teresa said, pulling out a thick, leather-bound archive binder. \u201cHe came in and sat right in that chair by the window for almost an hour.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat did he want from you?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe did not want anything at all,\u201d Teresa smiled, placing the heavy book on the central table. \u201cHe just told me he was feeling extremely nervous.\u201d<\/p>\n
I let out a breathless laugh and said, \u201cA man who processed weddings for nearly thirty years was nervous about a five-minute ceremony?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat is precisely what I told him when he sat there,\u201d Teresa agreed, opening the thick binder. \u201cHe stared at that wooden arch and told me, \u2018Tomorrow afternoon, I am finally standing on the other side of the desk.’\u201d<\/p>\n
Suddenly, I remembered his shaking hands on the morning of our wedding day.<\/p>\n
I had blamed his tremors on his failing liver and physical weakness.<\/p>\n
Now I realized I might have been witnessing pure human nervousness all along.<\/p>\n
Teresa turned the heavy paper pages of the old record book and pointed to a line near the bottom.<\/p>\n
\u201cTake a look at these old official records,\u201d she said gently.<\/p>\n
Inside was an official court record from over fifteen years ago featuring two names I did not recognize.<\/p>\n
Near the bottom of the page, in dark black ink, was his unmistakable handwriting.<\/p>\n
Next to his signature was a single printed word: Witness.<\/p>\n
Teresa turned to the next page, revealing another couple\u2019s marriage certificate from a different year.<\/p>\n
There was his signature again, clearly written beside the word Witness.<\/p>\n
She flipped through page after page, showing me dozens of entries spanning over two decades.<\/p>\n
Every single document bore his distinct, shaky signature in the witness box.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat is all this?\u201d I asked, looking up at Teresa in confusion.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhenever couples came in completely alone without friends or family, he would leave his desk to sign as their official witness,\u201d she explained. \u201cHe absolutely hated the idea of anyone getting married without at least one person standing beside them to validate the moment.\u201d<\/p>\n
I ran my finger gently over his old signature from a decade prior.<\/p>\n
It was strange to see his writing from a time long before I ever met him outside the station.<\/p>\n
It had the exact same narrow letter forms and the same crooked tail on the last letter.<\/p>\n
\u201cHow many times did he sign these books?\u201d I asked softly.<\/p>\n
\u201cHundreds of times over his career,\u201d Teresa estimated with a warm smile. \u201cHe used to joke that he had attended more weddings than anyone else in Minnesota, but he never had an anniversary of his own to remember.\u201d<\/p>\n
A small laugh escaped my lips before another question suddenly crossed my mind.<\/p>\n
\u201cWas he ever married before he met me?\u201d I asked, holding my breath.<\/p>\n
Teresa slowly closed the heavy leather binder and looked down at the table without speaking.<\/p>\n
\u201cTeresa?\u201d I asked again, my stomach tightening into a hard knot.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe was married once,\u201d she answered very quietly.<\/p>\n
\u201cTo whom?\u201d I asked, fearing the answer.<\/p>\n
She looked directly into my eyes and said, \u201cTo you, Hannah. Only to you.\u201d<\/p>\n
I sat down heavily in the chair beside the wooden wedding arch, processing her words.<\/p>\n
For twenty-eight years, he had watched complete strangers walk into that building as individuals and leave legally connected.<\/p>\n
Whenever someone arrived completely alone, he had stepped forward to offer his name as a witness.<\/p>\n
His name was recorded hundreds of times in those thick county archives.<\/p>\n
Yet it was always recorded beside the word Witness, never Husband, and never Spouse.<\/p>\n
Not until he asked me to step onto that carpet with him.<\/p>\n
Teresa opened another drawer in the cabinet and pulled out a protective plastic sleeve.<\/p>\n
\u201cThere is one more thing he left here for you,\u201d she said, handing the sleeve to me. \u201cHe asked me to keep this original filing after your marriage was recorded, just in case you came back.\u201d<\/p>\n
Inside was an official copy of our registered marriage certificate.<\/p>\n
My name was printed clearly on the line designated for the first party.<\/p>\n
His name was printed on the second line, and beside it was the bold word: SPOUSE.<\/p>\n
I remembered how carefully he had folded his personal copy after our short ceremony.<\/p>\n
He had asked the clerk twice to clarify exactly where he needed to sign his name.<\/p>\n
I had teased him about his perfectionism back then, saying, \u201cYou are acting like this is a massive traditional wedding.\u201d<\/p>\n
He had gone quiet for a second before looking up with a gentle smile.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt is my first marriage, so please let me be a little nervous,\u201d he had replied.<\/p>\n
I had laughed at his response back then, but sitting in that quiet ceremony room, I could not laugh anymore.<\/p>\n
Teresa took the empty chair beside me and asked, \u201cDid he give you a specific reason for wanting to marry you?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHe gave me a very convincing story about his burial arrangements,\u201d I admitted.<\/p>\n
I explained the contents of his letter, his calculated lie about John Doe burials, and his confession about manipulating my need to fix problems.<\/p>\n
Teresa listened intently without interrupting a single sentence of my story.<\/p>\n
When I finally finished speaking, she did not try to defend his deceptive actions.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat really was not fair to you, Hannah,\u201d she said honestly.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe knew you would automatically say yes if there was a crisis to solve,\u201d she continued. \u201cHe was always much better at asking people for practical help than asking someone to simply choose him as a person.\u201d<\/p>\n
I looked down at his signature on the certificate and asked, \u201cWhat was I actually agreeing to do when I said yes?\u201d<\/p>\n
Teresa looked at our certificate and said, \u201cThat part of the story belongs to him, not me.\u201d<\/p>\n
For a moment, I wanted to press her for more information, but I remembered his letter was still in my coat pocket.<\/p>\n
He had specifically instructed me to visit the courthouse first to see these books.<\/p>\n
He wanted me to understand his entire history before I finished reading his final words.<\/p>\n
I thanked Teresa for her kindness, left the courthouse building, and walked down to the subway platform.<\/p>\n
PART 4
\nWhen the train reached the downtown Minneapolis station, I stepped off onto the familiar cold platform.<\/p>\n
I walked up the concrete stairs to the street level, where the familiar coffee cart was still operating.<\/p>\n
The woman behind the counter recognized me immediately as I approached the window.<\/p>\n
\u201cAre you taking two cups as usual today?\u201d she asked kindly.
\n
\nFor a second, I almost said no, but then I glanced over at his empty spot beside the brick pillar.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes, please,\u201d I told her, reaching into my purse for my wallet.<\/p>\n
She handed me my usual cup with sweet cream, along with his plain black coffee.<\/p>\n
I carried both paper cups over to the concrete ledge where he used to sit every single morning.<\/p>\n
In two full years of knowing him, I had never stayed long enough to finish an entire cup of coffee by his side.<\/p>\n
I placed his hot black coffee down on the concrete ledge right beside me.<\/p>\n
Then I pulled the second page of his yellow letter out of my coat pocket and unfolded it.<\/p>\n
\u201cI did not need a legal wife to make my life matter, Hannah,\u201d he had written at the top of the page.<\/p>\n
Underneath that line was another simple sentence that made my heart ache.<\/p>\n
\u201cI just wanted to know, just once in my life, what it felt like to have somebody choose that word with me,\u201d the letter read.<\/p>\n
I stopped reading for a moment, watching the white steam rise from his untouched cup into the chilly Minnesota air.<\/p>\n
I wiped a tear from my cheek and forced myself to continue reading his shaky script.<\/p>\n
\u201cI knew that if I had told you the plain truth, you might still have said yes out of pity,\u201d he wrote.<\/p>\n
My eyes filled with tears, and I whispered to the cold wind, \u201cThen why did you not just tell me?\u201d<\/p>\n
His written answer was waiting for me directly on the very next line.<\/p>\n
\u201cBecause then I would have had to sit there and listen while you decided whether my loneliness was a good enough reason to marry me,\u201d he explained.<\/p>\n
Suddenly, two years of quick morning interactions looked completely different through his perspective.<\/p>\n
\u201cI made things much easier for you by turning my loneliness into a set of legal paperwork,\u201d he continued. \u201cI knew you were someone who understood how to handle paperwork and problems. You had every right to know the truth, and I am truly sorry for tricking you.\u201d<\/p>\n
I stared at his written words and whispered, \u201cYou really should have just been honest with me.\u201d<\/p>\n
A subway train rumbled deep beneath the street pavement, vibrating through the concrete ledge.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou were always trying so hard to fix every little thing for me,\u201d his letter said. \u201cI really liked that about you, even when you drove me completely crazy with your supply lists.\u201d<\/p>\n
Despite the heavy tears falling down my face, I could not help but chuckle.<\/p>\n
During our three brief weeks of marriage, I had bought him thick woolen socks, hygiene kits, portable chargers, and insulated blankets.<\/p>\n
I had brought enough survival supplies to his hospice room to last a person for six months.<\/p>\n
Every single visit to his bedside had followed the exact same repetitive pattern.<\/p>\n
I would hurry into the room holding bags of supplies, and he would say, \u201cPlease just sit down, Hannah.\u201d<\/p>\n
I would always answer, \u201cI will sit down in a minute, but I need to talk to the charge nurse first.\u201d<\/p>\n
There was always another form to complete, another sweater to organize, or another practical problem to manage.<\/p>\n
Then I reached his next line on the yellow page.<\/p>\n
\u201cI did not need better woolen socks nearly as much as you thought I did,\u201d he had written.<\/p>\n
I let out a wet laugh and murmured, \u201cYou are very welcome anyway, you old stubborn man.\u201d<\/p>\n
Then I read the sentence written right beneath it.<\/p>\n
\u201cI just needed you to sit down beside me,\u201d his letter revealed.<\/p>\n
I looked over at the empty space on the cold concrete beside his black coffee cup.<\/p>\n
Our final Tuesday morning together at the hospice came rushing back into my memory.<\/p>\n
I had brought him his usual cup of black coffee from the local vendor.<\/p>\n
\u201cAre you able to stay for a while today?\u201d he had asked from his bed.<\/p>\n
\u201cI can stay for about five minutes before work,\u201d I had replied, looking at my wristwatch.<\/p>\n
\u201cWell, look at you being a big spender with your time,\u201d he had joked with a tired smile.<\/p>\n
I had ended up staying for twelve full minutes that morning instead of five.<\/p>\n
Now I realized those twelve quiet minutes had probably meant more to him than all the supplies I had purchased.<\/p>\n
The final paragraph of his letter began with a very direct instruction.<\/p>\n
\u201cPlease do not turn my death into another project you failed to fix,\u201d he warned me.<\/p>\n
My fingers stopped moving on the paper because that was precisely what I had been doing since his funeral.<\/p>\n
I had spent six days wondering if I should have noticed his symptoms earlier or found better specialists.<\/p>\n
I had blamed myself for not finding him permanent housing before his liver completely failed.<\/p>\n
Then I read his final line.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou were not my failed rescue mission,\u201d he wrote. \u201cYou were my legitimate wife for three weeks, and I thoroughly enjoyed it.\u201d<\/p>\n
A genuine laugh escaped my lips as I wiped my eyes with my sleeve.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou absolute idiot,\u201d I whispered fondly, folding his letter around our official marriage certificate.<\/p>\n
For nearly thirty years, his name had appeared in county records beside a single word: Witness.<\/p>\n
For three short weeks at the end of his life, it appeared beside another word: Spouse.<\/p>\n
A shadow fell across the concrete pavement as someone approached the bench.<\/p>\n
\u201cExcuse me, miss, is anyone sitting on this ledge?\u201d a voice asked.<\/p>\n
A man carrying a worn canvas backpack pointed toward the empty space beside my coat.<\/p>\n
Instinctively, my hand reached toward my purse to look for spare cash or resource cards.<\/p>\n
Then I paused, remembered his letter, and pulled my hand back.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo, nobody is sitting here,\u201d I answered gently.<\/p>\n
The man sat down heavily on the cold concrete, setting his heavy backpack between his feet.<\/p>\n
My first impulse was to offer him the extra cup of coffee resting beside me.<\/p>\n
Then I remembered his final instruction written at the very bottom of the page.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe next time you start trying to fix somebody\u2019s life, ask them what they actually want first,\u201d he had advised.<\/p>\n
So I kept quiet, refrained from offering unprompted help, and simply sat beside the man.<\/p>\n
For several minutes, the two of us just sat together watching commuters rush into the subway station.<\/p>\n
Then I turned toward him and extended my hand in greeting.<\/p>\n
\u201cMy name is Hannah,\u201d I said warmly.<\/p>\n
The man looked surprised for a second before taking my hand and giving it a firm shake.<\/p>\n
\u201cI am Arthur,\u201d he replied politely.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt is very nice to meet you, Arthur,\u201d I said with a simple smile.<\/p>\n
I picked up the second cup of coffee from the ledge and took a small sip.<\/p>\n
It was completely bitter and black, without a single drop of cream or sugar.<\/p>\n
I immediately made a face at the strong, bitter taste.<\/p>\n
Arthur glanced over at me with a mild curiosity in his eyes.<\/p>\n
\u201cIs the coffee that bad?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo, it is not bad at all,\u201d I answered, looking down at the paper cup.<\/p>\n
I looked over at the empty space where my husband used to sit every morning for two years.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt is just not my cup of coffee,\u201d I added softly.<\/p>\n
I stood up from the cold concrete ledge and walked back toward the coffee cart.<\/p>\n
The woman behind the counter saw me coming back with the full cup.<\/p>\n
\u201cDid you want me to pour you another black coffee?\u201d she asked, reaching for a fresh cup.<\/p>\n
I shook my head and smiled at her.<\/p>\n
\u201cActually, could you please put a generous splash of sweet cream into this one?\u201d I requested.<\/p>\n
When I returned to the concrete ledge, his yellow letter and our official marriage certificate rested safely in my coat pocket.<\/p>\n
For once in my life, I was not rushing off to my accounting job downtown.<\/p>\n
I was not making frantic phone calls to shelter coordinators or filling out medical forms.<\/p>\n
I was not attempting to rescue or fix anyone on the street.<\/p>\n
I simply sat down beside Arthur on the cold pavement under the morning sun.<\/p>\n
And for the very first time in my life, the coffee in my hands tasted like it truly belonged to me.<\/p>\n
THE END.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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