A homeless man held up a sign that read, “Marry me. I have only one month left to live

The first line read:

“Sarah, I need to apologize before I thank you.”

I set the letter down.

“No,” I said, to nobody. My apartment was empty. The heater ticked. My tea went cold in front of me.

Let me back up, because you need to know how it started, or none of the rest will make sense.

I met Larry two years before he died, though “met” isn’t the right word. You don’t meet the man who sits outside your subway station. He’s just there one day, part of the scenery, like the newspaper box and the broken parking meter.

The first winter, I walked past him the way everyone walks past. Eyes forward. Fast pace. I told myself I was busy, which was true, and I told myself somebody else would help him, which was a lie people tell themselves every single day.

Then one morning I bought two coffees by accident.

I’d been on the phone with my sister, half paying attention, and I ordered on autopilot. One with cream. One black. My sister always drank hers black and I must have been thinking about her. By the time I hung up, I was standing there holding a coffee I didn’t want, and Larry was six feet away, blowing on his hands.

I don’t know why I gave it to him. It was easier than throwing it out, maybe. It was easier than carrying it.

“You take it black?” I asked.

He looked up at me like I’d said something suspicious.

“That the only kind you got?”