Other mornings it was politics at the office, although Larry knew almost nothing about my company and still managed to have opinions about everyone who worked there.
Once, after I arrived wearing a new pair of heels, he stared at them and said, “Those shoes were clearly designed by someone with a personal grudge against women.”
“They’re fashionable.”
“They look like punishment.”
“You know nothing about fashion.”
“I know you’re limping.”
I looked down.
He was right.
Larry smiled smugly.
That was our friendship.
Five minutes at a time.
A coffee.
A joke.
A complaint.
Then I disappeared underground and returned to the life waiting for me upstairs.
Until one freezing Tuesday morning.
I came around the corner carrying our coffees and saw the piece of cardboard resting across Larry’s knees.
The words were written in black marker.
MARRY ME. I HAVE ONE MONTH LEFT TO LIVE.
I stopped walking.
