Mark let go of my hands. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and took out some folded papers. Several sheets. Covered front and back in his blocky handwriting.
Draft eleven. Or maybe draft fifteen by now.
He unfolded them. His hands were shaking so badly the paper rattled.
He looked down at them for a long moment.
Then he looked up at me. And he folded the papers back up and put them in his pocket.
“I wrote it all down,” he said. “Every word. Because I was scared I’d forget it.” His voice was trembling. “But I’m standing here looking at you, and I don’t need the paper.”
There was a sound from the chairs. Someone sniffing. Carol, I think.
“Twenty-six years ago,” Mark said, “I sat on this dock and told a girl I’d known for eight days that I was going to marry her. She told me I was crazy. She was right. I was crazy about her. I still am.”
