There was a moment early on in our relationship when Kevin visited me in New York. He woke up one morning with the light from my bedroom window shining in his eyes, making them crinkle, and reached out his shaky hands to grab my face. He looked like this little old man, and in that moment, I could see our whole story play out. The celebrated scenario and all. So maybe I agreed to it then.
Kevin survived the night. For his fourth round of chemo, they admitted him to the hospital. By then, the chemo was affecting his cognitive functioning. I sent him a list of all the things to bring. He forgot to read it. That afternoon, he texted: “Could you bring me a phone charger?”
I was annoyed, but I brought it, because I would need to know if Kevin was still alive, and to do that I needed him to have a working cellphone. I asked if he needed anything else and he said no. I brought him a bag of food anyway, because hospital food is terrible and he wouldn’t be in the mood to eat after chemo but would wake up hungry later, and because I am trained for this.
I couldn’t enter the hospital without a negative P.C.R. test, so we stood outside of the entryway among the smokers and security guards. It was cold, which triggered his neuropathy, a lovely side effect. I stood there with my not-husband and gave him his phone charger. He took the snacks and said, “You’re the best.”
I told him to check that I was still his emergency contact. I kissed him on the cheek, and then briefly on the lips, and we never talked about the kiss.
I went to a bar four blocks away, ordered a whiskey sour and stared at my phone, begging it not to ring. I had just rearranged my entire day to bring my ex-husband a phone charger I had already reminded him not to forget, an exchange that took all of five minutes, and now here I was, annoyed and alone.
