There was a magic between them. Chemistry. They were placed in a beaker, mixed up, and came out as one.

I used to watch them at the diner. Sitting across from each other. Holding outstretched hands. Looking, focused on one another. They could care less about the coffee.

Then, one day, I think about five years ago now, he died. His liver gave out on him. Said he drank too much. Strange. He always acted sober.

The funeral was a small gathering of family and close friends. I went by to pay my respects. Told her I watched them in the diner every day. Explained I was a great admirer of their love. The gray-haired lady pulled me aside and said, don’t believe everything you see.

Brenda was her name, she said. And there was a Linda and a Marie as well. She looked back at the casket and laughed. He had women all over town. He was always bringing me flowers. His way of asking for forgiveness.

And you did?

Every time, she said. And, the flowers were nice. I had roses in the living room, tulips in the dining room, and a mixed bouquet in the kitchen. All at the same time. I never placed them in the bedroom, she sighed. Hurt too much.

Tongue-tied, I told her I never would have known it. You both looked so in love.

People passed us as we spoke. Expressed their condolences. Women were crying. Men told her he was a hell of a man, Geraldine. A hell of a man. She smiled and graciously agreed. Saying, thank you for coming, and God bless.

We sat in a pew when all had left. We just sat there. Quiet. She extended her hand. I held it. I noticed there was no ring. She was ready to move on.