Bob Reeves sat in a plastic chair, on a nondescript gray vinyl floor, under a flickering fluorescent light, surrounded by antiseptic white walls. The bleach based cleaning fluid stung his eyes, and permeated his nostrils.
His wife of four decades lay dead beside him. She had never looked so beautiful. Mary had been so brave for so long, but her body had finally just worn out. Bob held Mary's hand. He knew this is the last time they would be alone. If he could have been mad at her, he would have been. He was supposed to have died first dammit. That was just the way it worked. All men knew that.
Their only child, Scott, had been killed twenty-one years ago by a drunk driver. Scott's death shattered them, and turned their world upside down. In time, it had also saved their marriage. The two had grown distant before the accident. He cheated, she drank, and they lived a life of quiet solitude. They had both considered divorce, but the need to hold onto Scott's memory held them together.
Tears fell from Bob's eyes as he recalled that time. She had been patient with him, and he had vowed to make up for his mistakes. They rekindled what they once had, and spent two blissful decades together. They were seldom apart. Mary fretted about his health, even after she got sick. That was her.
A sound at the door startled him.
"Is everything ok?" a nurse asked.
"Perfect," Bob replied. "I am just visiting with my wife."
"Ok. Visiting hours are over in thirty minutes,"
"No problem," Bob said. He would enjoy thirty more minutes with the only woman he had ever loved. He kissed her on the forehead and sat back down, never letting go of her hand.
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