“Lisa. Lisa Leanne Fischer. Thompson, originally. She was tiny. Five three in socks, a buck ten soaking wet. Somehow made short and lean look curvy. Blond hair, blue eyes. Firecracker. Girl was hell on wheels, man. All attitude and sarcasm. Funny as hell.” He sighs. “Most I’ve talked about her since she died. In therapy I tended to talk about how I was feeling, not her.”

“Have you…” I hesitate. “I dunno how to put what I’m trying to ask.”

“Just ask, Adrian. Won’t offend me.”

“How do you move on? Have you moved on?”

He shrugs. “I don’t think I have. I don’t know how. She was my first serious girlfriend. Dated for five years, junior year of high school to junior year of college for her, through my apprenticeship and journeyman carpentry programs for me. We eloped.” He laughs. “Her parents hated me. She was from money, like old South money. She didn’t want anything to do with it, so when they refused to bless the marriage, she said fuck ’em and we eloped. Drove to Vegas, got married by Elvis.”

“Legit?”

He snorts, laughs louder. “Yeah. Sober as a post, both of us. Then we got drunk and blew a couple grand at the blackjack tables and slot machines. Came home, got an apartment together, and that was life.” A long silence. “Then a semi driver fell asleep at the wheel, crossed the center line, crushed her little Camry like a can of Coke. Killed her instantly. She was on the way to meet me for dinner after work. Phone rang while I was sitting at our table, waiting.”

“Jeez, dude. I’m so sorry.”

He nods. “Thanks.” He shakes his head, then. “How do you move on, man? I went on a date, a few weeks ago. Girl I met at a coffee shop. I couldn’t handle it. How do you tell a girl you just met that you’ve got dead wife? When do you mention it? Second date? Third? You gotta explain why you’re so grumpy, closed off. But you tell her too soon, it freaks her out. Makes her think you’re trying to…replace her? I dunno. I think that, myself. How do I replace Lisa? I know in my head that I can’t, that I’m not going to do that. But tell that to my heart.” He throws back the rest of his whiskey. “It’s a tough row to hoe.”

“I…” I want to say this is valuable insight, but that would be crass and would open up a conversation I’m not ready to have with anyone. “I guess you’re right when you said I can’t imagine.”

“God damn but I hope you never have to, my friend.”

“Me too,” I whisper, but it’s lost in my tumbler.