Michael finished with the groceries and sat down on the couch. This huge, intimidating man sat down so gently, so carefully. “Miss Dorothy, you need to take your noon medications. Want me to get them?”
“Please, dear.” He went to the kitchen. Came back with a pill organizer and a glass of water. Handed them to her with such gentleness. She took her pills and patted his hand. “Thank you, sweetheart.”
I had to know. “How did you two meet?” Dorothy’s eyes sparkled. “He tried to steal my purse.” My jaw dropped. Michael laughed. “That’s not exactly what happened, Miss Dorothy.”
“Close enough,” she said. “Tell her the story.” So Michael told me. He’d been riding his motorcycle through our neighborhood three weeks ago. Saw Dorothy sitting on the bench outside our building. She’d somehow made it downstairs but couldn’t get back up. The elevator was broken.
“She was just sitting there,” Michael said. “In fifteen-degree weather. No coat. I pulled over and asked if she needed help. She said yes, but she didn’t have any money to pay me.” He smiled. “So I carried her up four flights of stairs.”
