I found the diary in a box under the bed. It had only three entries, all from the summer we met.
Each one is a sentence about you. The way you laughed, the way you left your coat on the chair.
There's a spare button from that coat in a tiny plastic bag. I've moved it twelve times, two casino towns, three kitchens.
Remember Joe? The old rival who always tried to take you to the diner? He's still here. Drinks at the bar every night.
I never wrote a fourth entry. Maybe I was waiting for the right thing to say.
Now I'm seventy-six, and I work the line at the buffet. The heat doesn't bother me anymore.
I'm writing this to you because I finally know what that third entry was supposed to say. I'm sorry I never said it.