Without her glasses she couldn’t see, so she’d touch her thumb to the bristles of the two toothbrushes to figure out which one I’d used, then she would use the other. October, cold air filled with smoke, the tear-off calendar on our bedroom wall thinning through the waning year. I’d thought there’d be so much to say, but it turned out to be simple: what we wanted changed. What was strange was how sweet we were with each other, even near the end: handing her glasses to her, standing side by side at the window in the morning, watching the children gather at the bus stop on the corner, waiting in the heavy rain.
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