Fidel
The mornings were the hardest. Blinking to life, lost in a tangle of sheets and grogginess as the swell of dawn nudged the window. By the time I rolled over and realized Kylie wasn’t in the kitchen making coffee, or in the bathroom, or on the sofa reading or simply through her phone, it was too late. I was awake. And she was gone. In the weeks after my wife’s death, the drinking helped. Until it didn’t. After a few months I tried a weekly night out with friends, but that always ended with me at home, alone, my mind too crowded with echoes of laughter and revelry that no longer seemed appropriate. A few weeks ago, my aunt tried to set me up on a date but I chickened out. I couldn’t do it. It had only been six months. I wasn’t ready. So how was I doing? Everyone wanted to know. It was the question that followed the initial greeting, once the jackets were peeled off and weather and work had been discussed. Mostly, I was okay. Sometimes, I was better than okay. I laughed at s...
