***
Australia was my fourth stop.
And that was where I met Arthur.
I wanted to do that one thing for myself.
***
Arthur was 71, widowed, gentle, and had the kind of dry humor that sneaked up on you.
We met in Melbourne at a small second-hand bookstore.
I reached for a detective novel at the same time he did.
He looked at my hand over his.
"I suppose at our age, fighting over it would be undignified."
"At our age?"
He smiled.
We met in Melbourne.
"Fair point. You look 35," he replied.
"Now I know you're definitely dishonest."
Arthur laughed.
We had coffee that afternoon, then another two days later.
Then an afternoon walk through a garden where he spent 25 minutes arguing that roses were overrated.
"I know you're definitely dishonest."
"They're needy," he said.
"They're flowers."
"Exactly. Imagine being that demanding and not even paying rent."
I laughed more around Arthur than I had in years.
He loved jazz. So did I.
We both also liked old movies and gardening.
"They're needy."
Arthur also read detective novels, grew tomatoes badly, and had been married to his wife, Anne, for 38 years before she died.
We didn't pretend we were young and didn't play ridiculous games.
We talked about spouses we'd lost.
Children.
Regrets.
Loneliness.
We talked about spouses we'd lost.
***
Once, over a late lunch, Arthur said, "Nobody warns you that grief gets quieter, but it doesn't entirely leave."
I knew exactly what he meant.
***
After several afternoons together, he invited me to his home.
"I've got a whole shelf of old records you'd love," he said. "Come for coffee, and I'll show you."
I trusted him.
I knew exactly what he meant.
***
Arthur's house was warm and ordinary, filled with books, mismatched furniture, and family photos along the hallway.
"I'll put the kettle on," he said. "Make yourself at home."
