The homeless man I married drank his coffee black outside my subway stop. After his funeral, his last letter opened with an apology I couldn’t understand and sent me back to the courthouse. There, a clerk opened a record book, found his name on hundreds of pages, and asked which Larry I had married.
“Sarah, I need to apologize before I thank you.”
I read the first line twice.
Larry’s letter had arrived six days after his funeral, in a thick white envelope covered in the shaky handwriting I’d seen
