I assumed Larry had written me a goodbye.
That would have been like him.
The man couldn’t accept a cup of coffee without thanking me three times.
Then I reached the next sentence.
“Nobody was going to bury me as a John Doe.”
My smile vanished.
I sat down.
“No.”
Less than a month earlier, Larry had been sitting outside my usual subway station with a piece of cardboard resting across his knees.
Written across it in large black letters were the words:
MARRY ME. I HAVE ONE MONTH LEFT TO LIVE.
I had known Larry for nearly two years.
Every weekday morning, I stopped at the coffee kiosk beside the station and bought two cups.
Mine had cream.
His was always black.
Larry never begged me for money.
Some mornings we talked about the weather.
Other mornings he complained about the pigeons.
Once, he looked down at my office heels and told me they looked like they had been designed by “someone who hated human feet.”
