He sits alone in the kitchen. Stirs cream into coffee. Adds sugar. Slurps. Mmm, good, he says. He takes another sip. Just like she used to make, he smiles.

Years ago, she would fill his Thermos with coffee before he went to work. She made breakfast, too. Eggs, bacon or ham, and toast with fried potatoes. She even added salt and pepper to his liking. He’d kiss her goodbye and head out the door. The old man never said, I love you. Nor did he say thank you. Just a peck on the cheek, and he was gone.

The husband never came home on time. Always late, one sometimes two hours. Dinner was left in the stove. The wife asked where he’d been? Always the same answer. At the bar or talking to coworkers in the parking lot. She got used to eating alone.

She got used to doing everything alone. The two could be in the same room watching television, and she’d feel alone as he laughed and carried on. She knitted and smiled. Till death do we part, she would say to herself. Till death do we part.

Both of them began to tire easily as they got older. They both went to bed around eight. Laying in darkness. Turned on their sides. Laying in total silence. No words. Just an occasional cough or hiccup.

Is it over yet? She asked herself. Are we done? I should have ended this years ago. Back when it all began, she said. Thirty years of nothing. No kids. No trips. No love, she laughed. Why?

He sits alone in the kitchen. Stirs cream into coffee. Adds sugar. Slurps. Mmm, good, he says. He takes another sip. Just like she used to make, he smiles.

Till death do we part.