While looking out over the Delaware, Marty ate his cheesesteak and I alternated bites of pear with spoonfuls of nonfat cottage cheese from the container balanced on my knee. “Angela says she comes here every New Year’s Eve and Fourth of July for the fireworks,” he said. The poor man was consuming so many calories, what couldn’t fit in his mouth oozed out. I held my breath as I wiped some grease from his chin, and he smiled rather sweetly. With food choice alone he was in enough trouble. Did I have any business adding to his problems? If Angela might soon be gone, did it matter if his wife knew about her? And who was I to get involved? I never meddled in other people’s business, let alone love affairs. What did I know of love? How it fails. How it can freeze-dry your heart and scatter your remains. I didn’t even remember what love looked like between my parents. Yet Angela made me want to matter—to her. If it took all the fight she had to keep from drowning in harsh medical realities, I’d do what I could to make her air sweeter to breathe.
