Sean does not like it when I call him a 9/11 Victim. He tells me he's not a victim. His coworkers who died were victims. His wife of ten years was a victim. He was just there when it happened.
When we are together, I ask him questions about her. He is patient with me, explaining their relationship, not diminishing it just because she is no longer here, which I appreciate. I listen, trying to understand how it must feel to be in his skin and to live through that day and the thousand days that have passed. A few weeks ago, while in New York, I sat on the counter of his modern kitchen while he poured glasses of red wine. On the fridge was a snapshot of his wife and their son taken in Central Park that September. She's tiny, with a brown ponytail, bright brown eyes, and a natural, genuinely happy grin. I didn't feel like an interloper, exactly. Maybe an observer. A witness. Had things been different, she is the kind of woman who might be one of my best friends.
Instead, I'm dating her husband.You definitely need to read the rest of this one.