It was 10 o'clock at night and I was growing more tired by the hour. Here I sat at the bar, as I have every evening for the past decade. I downed my full glass of whiskey, savoring its familiar woody and aggressive flavor—just enough to rouse me from the lethargy that had gripped me lately.
"Time to close up, Mr. Williams," said the bartender. I left a $10 tip for the server and rose from my table. On the drive home, I reflected on the events of the past few hours. "I'm afraid the disease has progressed despite treatment," the doctor told me solemnly. "I have nothing more to offer." My liver cancer had now spread throughout my body. "How much time do I have left?" I asked. "A couple months, perhaps less," was the grim reply. I left his office with a heavy heart. "So this is to be my fate," I thought, remembering Sara, my wife who had passed from cancer 40 years prior. "Even in death, we are kindred spirits."
I climbed into the car and instructed the driver to take me home. There, I slowly reviewed my current situation: I was 65 years old with two children now living independent lives of their own. My affairs were in order—assets distributed fairly via my will. My children now ran the business that had been my life's work. "Well, it seems I've left nothing unfinished," I mused.
Slowly, images from my past surfaced like scenes in a film, revealing the story of my life. Without question, all had been well until Sara's departure. After that, it was a maelstrom of emotions, experiences and relationships that defined the second half of my years.
I recalled that in the years following Sara's death, I had acquainted myself with many women, of varied backgrounds. Whether I was attractive, or wealth drew them, I could not say—likely both. Each left her mark on my life in her own way. At first, it was mere intimacy we shared, but later I discovered my true passion: recounting their lives, loves, losses and lessons learned. In speaking with them, I found solace—more than any physical act could provide.
I pondered all the lives I had known and would soon forget,
