But this biker grieved her like he had lost someone irreplaceable.
Sometimes, from my car, I saw his shoulders shake.
Sometimes, before he left, he placed one rough hand against her headstone and kept it there for several seconds.
Like he was saying goodbye all over again.
By the third month, I could not take it anymore.
That Saturday, I stepped out of my car and walked toward him.
He heard my footsteps but did not turn around.
His hand stayed pressed against Emily’s name.
“Excuse me,” I said, my voice sharper than I intended. “I’m Emily’s husband. I think it’s time you told me who you are.”
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then he slowly stood, turned toward me, and looked like a man who had been waiting six months for this question.
Finally, he said:
“Your wife was my…”
