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He didn't miss her.
Goodman piloted the small boat away from the sailing pavilion out into the rolling river. The afternoon was clear. A strong breeze blew down river towards the new suspension bridge.
Goodman looked fine sitting there, holding the tiller. His clothes were new. His haircut was new. He wore new contacts. Six months ago he had hired a personal trainer. Even his teeth were new. The sailing lessons had been new too.
Goodman owned another life now, another simpler life without Mary. No more trays and pills; no more running up and down the narrow stairs. No more nights in the dark until four worrying about her. No more listening to her breathe from the spare bedroom. That was over now.
The wind filled the sail. The little boat glided out into the center of the river and got caught in the strong central current. It carried him past the condos on the shore, past the museum, past the tourist boats, past the college longboats with their muscled rowers and loud megaphones.
The boat was new. The sail was new. Everything was new.
There was a time when he loved her. There was a time when he couldn't go an hour without her. That was long ago.
How could he miss her? After the endless treatments, after watching her slowly waste away, a ghost of the woman he loved. Her hair had fallen out. Her vibrancy had dimmed. Her bones had shown through translucent paper skin.
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