The divorce was final by 3 p.m. I drove past the church where I'd played organ for twenty-three years without stopping.
The all-night diner was the only place open. I took the last booth, cracked vinyl, a view of the highway and the grain elevator.
Diana came over with coffee and a little plastic holder. Inside was a birthday candle shaped like a five. 'For your next chapter,' she said. 'You looked like you needed something to light.'
I didn't tell her it wasn't my birthday. I didn't tell her I'd been fifty-five for three months and now I was alone.
I lit the candle and watched it burn while she wiped down the counter. At closing time, I stood in line at the register, the only customer left.
I counted out six dollars and eighty-two cents for coffee and a slice of lemon pie. She took it and said, 'You take care of yourself, hon.'
She called me 'hon.' Not 'sir' or 'buddy.' Just that little word my wife used to say before she stopped.
I drove home across the flat dark plains. The candle was still in my coat pocket. I didn't put it in the garbage. I just let it be there.