The Last Slice

She leaves the last slice of pie on the counter with a fork already beside it, like a question she is too proud to ask out loud.

I am not a soft man. Ask anyone in this town and they will tell you I frown at weather forecasts. But I stand in her kitchen at midnight eating cherry pie off her fork, and something in my chest goes quiet for the first time in years.

I wash the plate. I leave a note. I do not sign it, but she will know. She always knows.

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