Alexander is an elderly gentleman, a widower, age 92. His wife died at home nearly three years ago. They married when Alexander returned from the war in 1945. They had 58 long and happy years together.

Alexander is now confused, somewhat, and spends his days with a pocket full of bus tokens, riding all over Manhattan, remembering when that was all he and his bride had money for, so they rode the busses instead of going to the movies or taking a vacation or even a small trip. Being together was enough, then.

For Alexander, when he rides the bus now, he is with his wife once more.

He always wears an old suit, with a buttoned sweater, the top button closed against a neatly knotted tie; the sweater festooned with crumbs from the sandwich that he had as his breakfast or his lunch He never learned to make anything other than sandwiches, because his wife always took care of things like that.

In the tiny kitchen in his apartment you would see in the dish drainer one small plate, a small water glass, one bread knife. Sometimes you would see a tea cup and a spoon, but not often. With his wife gone, the apartment is empty, and he seldom bothers with the tea they both enjoyed so much.