I told him about my divorce.
He was the first person I had spoken to who seemed to understand what loneliness sounded like.
The quiet kind.
The kind where you make too much coffee because you haven’t adjusted to one cup yet.
The kind where you hear something funny on television and turn your head before remembering there is nobody beside you.
Every morning, David sent me a photograph of his coffee.
Same mug.
Green and chipped on the handle.
Sometimes the newspaper was behind it. Sometimes a plant.
Sometimes one of his hydrangeas through the kitchen window.
He lived 1,100 miles away in a small town.
Early on, I asked which part of the town he lived in.
He told me the town and the name of his street.
He added, “It’s a beautiful place. Not easy to miss, as hydrangeas are under the front window.”
After that, he occasionally sent photographs of the front garden.
