I HAVE ONE MONTH LEFT TO LIVE.
Every weekday, I bought two coffees from the kiosk beside the station. Mine with cream. His black.
Larry never begged me for anything. Some mornings we discussed the weather. Other mornings he complained about pigeons or told me my office shoes looked designed by “somebody who hated feet.”
Larry never begged me for anything.
I usually stayed five minutes before rushing to work.
That freezing Tuesday, Larry looked terrible.
His skin had a yellowish cast, and his hands trembled when I gave him his coffee.
“What is this?” I asked, pointing at the sign.
“What is this?”
“The clinic gave me about a month.”
The traffic noise seemed to disappear.
“What?”
“Liver failure.”
I sat beside him on the cold concrete.
“Larry, I’m so sorry.”
“The clinic gave me about a month.”
“Don’t make that face.”
“What face?”
“The one people make when they’re already at your funeral.”
