He looked at my hand over his.
“I suppose at our age, fighting over it would be undignified.”
“At our age?”
He smiled.
We met in Melbourne.
“Fair point. You look 35,” he replied.
“Now I know you’re definitely dishonest.”
Arthur laughed.
We had coffee that afternoon, then another two days later.
Then an afternoon walk through a garden where he spent 25 minutes arguing that roses were overrated.
“I know you’re definitely dishonest.”
“They’re needy,” he said.
“They’re flowers.”
“Exactly. Imagine being that demanding and not even paying rent.”
I laughed more around Arthur than I had in years.
He loved jazz. So did I.
We both also liked
old movies and gardening.
“They’re needy.”
Arthur also read detective novels, grew tomatoes badly, and had been married to his wife, Anne, for 38 years before she died.
We didn’t pretend we were young and didn’t play ridiculous games.
We talked about spouses we’d lost.
