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SHE USED TO KISS HIM THROUGH THE CAR WINDOW—NOW SHE WALKS TO THE MARKET BY HERSELF Every Thursday morning, like clockwork, I’d see them. An old silver Ford would pull up near the corner market, hazard lights blinking. He never got out. Just sat there, hands on the wheel, watching the sidewalk like he was waiting for the best part of his week. And then she’d appear—stooped but elegant, pink cardigan, black tote bag swinging from her wrist. She’d lean into the window, kiss him gently, and say something that made him chuckle every time. Then she’d hobble into the store like it was no big deal. I never talked to them. Just watched from the café across the street, sipping my coffee, pretending not to care. But I always waited for that kiss. Then one Thursday… he didn’t come. I saw her walk up the street, slower than usual, her cane clicking on the bricks. She stopped at the corner where the car used to park, just stood there looking like she’d forgotten something. No Ford. No blinking lights. No one to kiss. She turned around and started walking back. Something in me couldn’t stay still. I got up, crossed the street, and gently asked if she needed help. She looked at me with these watery eyes and said, “He passed on Monday.” ⬇️ See less