I’d gone a year without knowing where he died. A couple of weeks afterwards, I did go into the convenience store I suspected and asked if a man OD’d in their restroom, but I felt so gross as the words came out that I ran away. “Nevermind! I’m sorry!”
(“I don’t need to know where it happened,” I chided myself. “It certainly doesn’t matter to him. And why would I wish to put that picture in someone else’s head?” I felt disgusting and morbid for wanting to know.)
Around the anniversary mark Christine told me where he died, a few blocks east of the store I imagined. “I sit at the bus stop across the street every morning!” I exclaimed, delighted for reasons I don’t understand. “They’re tearing it down!”
“Oh, no,” she lamented.
“Are you kidding? Good riddance. He LIVED!”
The next day, I arrived early and wrote his name on the not-yet-demolished building, plus hearts and smiley faces. “Hi, honey!” I said to him every morning thereafter. “We always did share a twisted sense of humor. Why not greet each other here?”
Today, I lunched with friends kitty-corner from that place. When I drove by, I dismissed my intuition. “You’re just thinking of him because of the corner, Christie, not because he’s with you every time he crosses your mind.” But then I passed a license plate that read, “Chef On,” and if you’ve read other posts about Jeffrey, you know my culinary friend talks to us through license plates, too.
“Oh, alright then,” I teased us both. “Hi, honey!”