The room smells like antiseptic and melted plastic.You clutch a paper bag his glasses, his poetry book, his favorite T-shirt. The one he wore when he kissed you in the rain after your wedding.He looks up when you enter. Blank-eyed. A quiet smile.“Hey,”he says“Are you… my nurse?”Your heart stumbles."No,”you say gently.“I'm… your spouse.”He blinks, slow. Confused
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