His fingers ran across the keyboard for a moment. He stared quietly at the screen for a moment, and then smiled, nodding to himself. I watched him move the mouse, saving the document and then clicking on internet explorer. I watched the screen switch to yahoo, and was silent as he sent whatever-it-was to himself.
I examined his face in silence. There were deep bags beneath his eyes, and, as he turned to me, I could see how deeply worn he was from the lines on his face. With a jolt of shock, I realized he looked old.
“Drew?” I whispered carefully. He stood up and walked toward me.
“Thank you,” he croaked, his throat thick with exhaustion.
“Sure thing,” I said, still whispering.
Suddenly, in an unexpected movement, he hugged me. Shocked, I stood still for a moment and then hugged him back. What had happened last night?
“Thank you,” he whispered again and I felt wetness as his eyes overflowed with tears. I realized that I was crying too.
Cynthia had died at exactly seven this morning.