Bob felt much older than his age. Sure, his once brown hair was more than halfway gray, his midsection had gained a few unhealthy pounds, and there seemed to be new wrinkles showing up in his skin everyday, but he still looked younger than his fifty-five years.

He was handsome, in relative good shape, with bright, brown eyes and a warm smile that could turn heads if he ever showed it.

But Bob was depressed, and had been for a long time. Counseling had made it better, to a point, but he still preferred to be alone a lot of the time. He had stopped feeding his personal relationships with phone calls and nights out, so most of his friends had downgraded to mere acquaintances.

In fact, he had always liked his time alone, and if not for Mary, he probably would have remained single forever. So most days he was okay with being alone. The other days were the days that he missed his wife the most.

They had been together their whole lives, first as neighbors and classmates, then as coworkers and spouses. But she’d been gone for almost five years now—cancer—and he still missed her deeply. Plenty of days were bad, but a few had a particularly bad sting. On those days, he liked to be with company instead of remaining alone.

Lately, however, those desires to be with others seemed to be more about just having human contact as opposed to comforting his loss. A part of that realization gave him hope that these bad days would end.

And if things weren’t already bad, Bob had a cast on his right arm from an injury he’d sustained at work. It didn’t itch nearly as bad as it used to, but after dealing with the damn thing for a month already, he was not looking forward to the next month of wearing it before it came off. Yeah, it was definitely a bad day.