Advertisement
Once, when I’d asked how they met, he just said, “At the wrong time,” and kissed the back of my hand like that made it noble.
I didn’t push. The woman was dead, so I thought that leaving the past alone was a sign of respect.
Ben never spoke about his first wife.
The only photo of Rachel I’d ever seen was a faded snapshot in a drawer. She was smiling and looking away from the camera, her hair pulled back.
“You were beautiful, Rachel,” I said, putting the snapshot back as I continued to look for a pack of batteries.
Advertisement
Ben was seven years older than me. He liked the quiet. He took his coffee black and listened to old soul records on Sunday mornings. He used to call me his “second chance.”
I thought it was romantic.
“You were beautiful, Rachel.”
The morning I posted our wedding photos was unremarkable. I’d been folding towels, the sun had turned the kitchen tiles warm under my feet. I just wanted to share it. I hadn’t posted Ben before, not once.
I tagged him and simply wrote:
Leave a Comment