He was an avid reader. New York Times every morning, front to back.
He rode his bike to and from school, work, and the market.
He ate maple pecan granola each morning. He was a coffee snob.
He believed in spending $300 on a nice dinner without it having to be a special occasion. This is how he lived.
He appreciated art. He had a deep appreciation.
He loved good food, really good food. We ate well.
He joked a lot. He liked to tell me about raunchy phrases that made me cringe.
He smoked and then stopped.
He loved me. I loved him.
We stopped being kind. We started being mean.
I felt alone. I felt abandoned by my best friend.
Music. He was always in the know of the latest and greatest artists. He only went to concerts if he could sit in the front 3 rows. No exceptions.
When we went to NY for the first time, he explored the city while I slept. He feared nothing. He felt safe everywhere. This scared me and was also something I admired deeply.
We parted. We separated. Packed up the house. Split up the dishes and what not.
It ended. We ended.
He thinks of me. I think of him.
I was a hostess. He was a server.
He’s a teacher. I am a life coach.
He taught me how my heart could break and heal.