« You cheated. »
« I’m eighty-nine. I’ve earned a little cheating. »
We settled into that rhythm week after week.
He never asked about my grief directly, and I appreciated that more than he knew.
One Wednesday, feeling bold, I decided to tease him.
« You cheated. »
« Albert, can I ask you something personal? »
« Only if it’s scandalous. »
« Would you ever get married again? »
He set down his teacup and studied me for a long second.