"Peter, something happened to Kirsten."
"Don't get on that boat!"
——
The light above the emergency room flicked on.
I looked down at my hands.
They were young. No age spots. No gnarled blue veins winding beneath the skin.
Fifty years of marriage, wiped away like a dream.
When we were kids, our three families were neighbors, all living in the same old tenement building.
Peter's family was on the third floor, mine on the fourth, Kirsten's on the fifth.
The three of us were close in age.
We walked to school together, walked home together.
We played hopscotch on the concrete lot out front.
On summer nights when the power went out, the adults would drag their lawn chairs outside to cool off, and the three of us would squeeze onto one together, counting stars.
Kirsten always insisted on lying in the middle. Peter on one side, me on the other.
Even back then, I noticed that whenever she rolled over in her sleep, she always turned toward Peter.
When I was old enough to know what love was, I realized I was in love with Kirsten.
It wasn't the loud, dramatic kind. It was quiet, something I kept locked away inside.
When she laughed, I wanted to laugh with her. When she was sad, I felt it worse than she did.