He only smiled.
“My mama loved it, Tom.”
That was Thomas.
At least, that was who I thought he was.
A kind dying man.
A lonely one.
***
One day, he asked me to marry him.
“Marry me, Sarah,” he whispered.
I froze beside his bed with a cup of ice chips in my hand.
One day, he asked me to marry him.
“Thomas…”
“I know.”
“You’re very sick.”
“Yes.”
“We barely know each other.”
He looked at me for a long moment.
“I know enough.”
“Enough for marriage?”
“Enough to know you’re the kind of person who stays. My last wish is to leave this world as a husband, not as a nameless file.”
“We barely know each other.”
***
Two days later, a chaplain married us in Thomas’s hospital room.
I wore a yellow sweater because Thomas said it made the room look less tired.
He wore the same cardigan with one missing button.
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