“How ya doing?” he mumbled in that gravelly, seven beers deep kind of voice.“Good, yourself?” I asked him.“You know we have a doorbell?” L...slie’s mom said, coming from the kitchen smiling and giving me a hug.“I like knocking!” I laughed.“She’ll be down in a minute or two,” her dad grumbled, sinking back into his chair to watch Auto Trader. “You know how she is, has to look perfect to go to the corner store.” I always had the feeling that even though Leslie’s parents liked her fiancé Mark,. Coffee cups were cleared off first. I offered to help clean up, and over dirty coffee cups and fingerprints and smudges on the table, we began to talk. She was 44. I was 44. She was divorced with two children. I was married with one child. She was dating a man to whom she expected to become engaged. I was in a marriage that was far from ideal, lacking in intimacy and communication. We were of two different ethnic backgrounds, two different faiths, and yet we shared many of the same basic. More

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