Without even thinking about it, I’d roll my jeans halfway up my calves and get into the bathtub to pull him up.
I shaved his face and gave him his painkillers at perfectly timed intervals. Now my breath quickens when the answer to a clue in my crossword, “Body fluid buildup,” is “edema,” the condition in Clark’s left leg that caused it to swell and dwarf his right.
My eyes sting as I read a newspaper article describing the latest study to come out of a cancer conference, which involves a drug trial that Clark was too sick to participate in.
I slink off to the bathroom with my head down, ignoring my friends at the bar, when I catch a glimpse of his obituary, which hangs on the back of a door at the Black Cat, the bar where we met.
Clark and I met on the Thursday before Labor Day, August 30, 2007.