Pleasantview

Edgar Barrey sat at a small table on the sidewalk outside a coffee shop a block away from his apartment in the city. It was a beautiful June morning with glimpses of sun between clouds and a little breeze. There had been rain in the early hours, and now the world had that sweet, clean smell peculiar to larger cities. He loved this little shop, he used to come here with his wife Eleanor before her death nine months ago.

The sun came out and shown on him and he closed his eyes just to feel the warmth on his face. He saw, in his mind's eye, a few of the times he and Eleanor had sat at a table here and talked or read the newspaper or just sipped coffee and watched the world go by.

He remembered the last time they'd been here together. It was the last time she'd come out before going to the hospital. She had become so frail he thought some slight autumn breeze might blow her off the chair and send her tumbling down the sidewalk. It wasn't warm then, but even bundled up in two sweaters he could almost see through her.

He opened his eyes and the girl set his coffee down in front of him. He mumbled a thanks as she hurried off to take care of other customers.

He started to reach for his cup to take a sip but stopped and just sat there, thinking again of Eleanor. It seemed he'd thought more and more about her lately, and of only the good things. Their time together had not been easy, but now looking back he could only remember it as a good time. How could he forget all the fights, all the ultimatums, all the crying by both of them? She'd left him twice, they'd both talked to lawyers, and then, gotten back together. That must have been thirty years ago. He couldn't remember how or why they'd reconciled.

Right now, thinking back, he remembered only an ideal marriage. Helping each other, laughing at each other's jokes, worrying about each other, holding hands in cold waiting rooms. He wished Eleanor was still here, he missed her badly. Strange how your memory could rewrite your whole life.

They'd never had children. The time for expecting them passed by and without a formal acknowledgment, they'd both adjusted their courses and gotten on with life. Maybe that was a tragedy, maybe not, it hardly mattered now. They'd had friends but friends move on, fall out, die. Both of them had come from small families, with only a couple siblings, who’d scattered and not kept in touch. This was the way things worked.

Edgar Barrey had become alone in the world. He reached down, picked up the cup and lifted it to his mouth for a sip. It tasted wonderful.

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