I frequent coffee shops, well, frequently.
In one of my regular spots I had seen the same older gentleman teeter in early in the morning carrying two travel mugs, presumably one for him and one for his wife who, perhaps, is too ill to rise from bed.
It’s always a touching scene, the man paying for his two cups of coffee and maybe buying the newspaper on Sundays. Then I didn’t see him for months, and I feared that he had died.
Then I saw him again yesterday in line for coffee, but this time he was carrying only one travel mug, and I was just as sad to think that his wife had finally died. I was so overcome that I approached him, touching his shoulder to get his attention.
“Hi, I’m sorry to bother you. I noticed you’re only getting one cup of coffee when you used to get two. I hate to ask, but did your wife pass?”
He looked at me like I was a madman. It may have been my rainbow afro wig.
“That old bitch? No she’s still around. My asshole doctor told me I had to quit drinking coffee.”