I dressed and slipped out the back door while he was in the shower. I was ten miles away when my mobile pinged with a text message from him asking, “where’d you go?”
I rolled down the window and continued the 30 miles drive north, the ocean to my left, Solange’s A Seat at the Table filling the car and fueling my thoughts (at times to the point of tears), to my favorite harborside cafe and then to the bookstore to pick up my preordered copy of The Rain in Portugal by Billy Collins (one of his three favorite poets, Mary Oliver and Bukowski are the other two). A day before he lamented not being able to get a free moment from work to pick up a copy. He had no idea I’d already ordered it for him.
Stopped by the bakery to grab a mini-blueberry pie to go with his new book. 12 hours later, his bedside table: an empty milk glass, a plate stained blue and sticky with berry juice, and book.